“Is it gone?”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t know?”
“Bill, there is a lot I don’t know. I have to accept things on faith, just like you do. God doesn’t need us to understand; just obey.”
I wanted to believe Barbara, but I didn’t understand God’s role in her gift. More than anything, I wanted to believe Barbara’s abilities came from God. The itch of doubt raised its head again. How could I turn my back on my faith? On the scriptures? But there were more than one explanation. Look at all the denominations, all the Bible translations, all the different ways of expressing worship.
Barbara rested her hand on my arm. I glanced at her face, shining with kindness and understanding. The Mona Lisa smile that I had grown to love was gone, though. Obviously, I had hurt her.
Who was I to doubt something she had lived with all her life? I couldn’t expect to comprehend God-given paranormal abilities overnight.
“I’m sorry. I know my doubt has hurt you. But this is all strange to me. I have lived my whole life believing the literal translation of the Bible.”
Gnats buzzed around my face, and I cringed at the thought of inhaling one. Sun beat down on my head, heating my shoulders and arms. The squirrels were gone, probably sleeping out the hot midday. Even the birds were quiet. Except for the gnats, Barbara and I could be alone on the planet.
“When I first met you and learned you were a psychic, I wanted to run the other direction.”
Barbara turned toward me. “Really? Why?”
“My biblical belief says to run from psychics.”
“Oh, Bill. Is that what’s bothering you? There are good psychics and there are bad ones. Just as there are good preachers, and there are false profits. God told us to run from false profits, too.”
“That makes sense.”
“Let me explain it this way. You know about spiritual gifts,” Barbara said, “Do you know why God gives them to us?”
“Not really.”
“Satan has been trying to steal us away from God since the creation of the earth. God provided us with the Bible and good preachers who try to protect us, but sometimes the force of evil is so strong we need more. That’s when God gives supernatural gifts. It happened all the time in the Bible.”
“But that was back then. Times are different.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you.”
“I can help you understand what I experience, the warmth and gentle comfort I feel when I give myself to the spirit.”
My heart lurched. I wasn’t sure what she had in mind. Did I trust her? I trusted the woman standing beside me. I wasn’t sure I trusted the woman from the attic. “The spirit. You mean the Holy Spirit, don’t you?”
She shrugged her shoulders, but I barely noticed. My mind was made up. She had a gift. She was a Christian. There’s nothing to fear from this beautiful gentle woman. “I trust you.”
“Let’s go back and sit down at the bench down the path.”
We left the bridge and walked the short distance to a marble bench.
“Take my hands,” she said, “and then close your eyes and clear your mind. I will ask God to send you a gentle spirit, someone to share your human body. It will help you feel what I feel.”
Red flags again, just like in the coffee shop. Something she said about God sending me a gentle spirit. Then I realized God didn’t need to send the Holy Spirit. It already resided in me. My heart pounded as adrenalin pumped into my bloodstream.
Blue eyes, loving and full of hope, melted my hesitation. “Should we pray?” I asked.
“It’s going to be fine, Bill.” She stretched out her hands toward me. I stared at them, knowing the decision could change my life.
I took her hands and closed my eyes.
The coldness from the bench seeped through my jeans, and I tried to push back the icy memory of last night. Birds chirped. Warm air brushed against my face and arms, comforting this time. Barbara’s soft hands.
Like a balloon, I became buoyant, but still the tether remained.
A presence, vaporous but thicker than air, swirled around my mouth and nose, probing, seeking entrance. I turned my head, eyes squeezed shut, lips pinched tight, and tried not to breathe. An inner voice screamed for me to run.
My desire for the presence overwhelmed me, like a drug to an addict. And yet, I knew it was wrong. The internal battle waged. Desire over knowledge. Strength over will.
My lungs screamed for air. I took tiny breaths, denying my body more. I tried to concentrate again on Barbara’s hands, but it was useless.
My eyes flew open. Barbara’s face was in front of me, her eyes still closed, a smile of contentment on her lips.
The tightness in my chest felt vice-like as I shot my eyes left then right. The trees and brushes were distorted, as though I was looking through an old piece of wavy glass. A thin veil, almost translucent, drifted around Barbara and me, wrapping the two of us together in its barely visible net. My muscles contracted in revolt as the silken strands slid over my arms, up my neck, and across my face. We were being wrapped together in an invisible web, the silken threads as strong as steal and deadly as a black widow.
Hot. Violated.
Irrational with fear, I jumped from the bench and started to run, brushing away the invisible fibers that still clung to my skin. I had to get away, to put distance between me and the vaporous thing Barbara had summoned.
Barbara called my name. I didn’t stop. I kept running.
I could flee, but could I escape the deceiver that wanted my soul?
13
I took Barbara to the airport the next morning. We didn’t give the kids an excuse for her early departure, and they didn’t ask for one. I assumed they thought we had quarreled, and it would have been better if that’s all it was. Forgiveness is doable. Continuing a relationship with someone who knowingly allows evil spirits to enter her body is impossible.
As I drove home, I thought of Betsy. She had warned me. She hadn’t called yet, and that bothered me. Our last major argument had been years ago. Trina wanted to live on campus her first year of college. She was young, only seventeen, and I wanted her to stay at home and commute. Betsy had taken Trina’s side, stating living on campus was a learning experience. Betsy had won; she always did. Even then, we had still talked every day. I pulled the phone out of my pocket.
A smothering hotness filled the car, choking out my breath. I fumbled for the air conditioning control and cranked it to the coldest level. The car began to cool. I glanced at the cellphone resting on the car seat where I had tossed it. What was I thinking? Barbara may have been a bad experience, but Betsy over-reacted. She had treated me like a little boy. At least Barbara treated me like a man.
I always turned to my older sister for advice, and she had been right. A horn sounded behind me. The light had turned green. As I moved through the intersection, I reached for the phone on the opposite seat where I had tossed it.
A car careened through the intersection. I stomped on my brake. The sound of metal against metal ripped the air. My breath was shoved from my chest as my face hit the airbag. I awoke as the sound of sirens ripped through the air.
“Hey buddy, are you hurt?”
The fog started to lift, and I realized the question was directed at me. I rolled my head to the right, but my vision was blocked by a wall of metal. I focused on each part of my body. My heart lurched.
“I can’t move my legs or arms!” I shouted through the tomb that encased me. “I can’t move! Does anyone hear me?”
Breaths came faster. I was going to die.
“We’re going to get you out. Now you need to do something for me. Can you feel your toes?”
“I can’t reach them! I told you, I can’t move at all.”
“No, you don’t have to touch them. Can you wiggle your toes?”
“I don’t know.” My breaths came in gasping pants. I expected my heart to come flying out of my ch
est at any moment.
“Are you bleeding?”
I shifted my head back and forth, trying to see as much of me as possible. My left arm had become pinned under me, the right one was fastened between the passenger headrest and my shoulder. Both legs were pinned between the dash and the seat. My left shoulder hurt. As I moved my head, something dripped down my left cheek and plopped onto my shirt. Blood.
I gave my report best I could to the paramedic. In minutes, a window had been pried into the side of the car. An hour later, I was finally released from my bondage, thanks to the Jaws of Life and five firemen.
“I’ll have your car towed,” the policeman said as I was loaded into the squad. “Anything of value we need to rescue?”
“No, just maps and empty coffee cups.”
“Take care of him,” the policeman told the paramedic as the squad door was latched, encasing me in steel one more time.
“Dad,” Trina asked, “are you feeling up to switching bedrooms today?
I sipped my second cup of after-breakfast coffee and eyed my daughter. I could always tell when something was on her mind. And even though I had settled into somewhat of a slump, I recognized the flitty behavior. “What’s up?” I asked.
“I want to get your room ready for guests. It is one of the nicer rooms. That’s why I chose it for you, but now you need to move.”
“So my welcome as a guest is up?” I winked at her. “Where do I go? The garage? How about the other den, the one you want to paint pink?”
“Oh Dad.” Trina giggled. “You just need to move to the next bedroom. The one Barbara stayed in.” Her expression became serious. “That is, if you feel up to it. It’s only been two days since your accident.” She leaned against the counter. “I can’t believe you weren’t hurt worse. I saw the pictures of the car. It was a mess. The policeman at the emergency room said he had never seen a car smashed up worse and have the driver come out alive.” She pulled a tissue out of the pocket of her shorts and dabbed her eyes. “Dad, we could have lost you.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I knew Trina loved me, but her expressions of caring always touched a special part of me that few were allowed to enter. “You didn’t lose me, and I am fine.” I pushed myself up from my chair and took my cup to the sink. “I will start moving now.”
“I’ll help.”
We each grabbed an armful of clothes and walked to the next room. The air felt close, like the place had been shut up for weeks instead of two days. “Trina, you mind if I open up the window?”
“No, go ahead.”
I went back to my room for another armful, and when I entered the room the second time, I had the sensation of being watched. “Creepy.”
Trina followed me into the room, her hands full of socks and underwear. “Did you say something, Dad?”
“It’s nothing.” I put my shirts into their assigned drawer, and then peered down to look under the chest.
“What are you doing?” Trina chuckled. “Checking to see if I cleaned up here?”
“I just wondered about mice. You know, they like old houses.”
“Dad, you’re so funny. I don’t think you’ll find any mice. If you do, Ted can go buy some of those trap-boxes and we’ll put the critters back outside.”
Trina scanned the room, hands on her hips. “Want to know what color you’re going to paint in there?”
“Me? Paint? Isn’t that Ted’s job?”
“Soft gray.” She said the words as though they were made of silk. “The room already has one of the best views of the back yard. I already bought black iron headboard for the bed, and I want to find dark gray draperies and bedspread, and layer cranberry pillows and a throw blanket.”
It sounded dull to me, but knowing Trina, it would be classy. I headed out for another load.
“Does the air seem funny in here?” I asked on returning. “I opened the window, but it still feels stuffy, like there are too many people and not enough air.”
“And you think the mice are breathing in all the air? They must be having a club meeting.”
I laughed at Trina’s joke, but the sensation of not being alone in the room persisted.
I wondered if the creepy feeling could be from high electro-magnetic fields. There were only two receptacles in the entire room, both the old two-prong format, without the ground. The ceiling light was a flat oval of opaque glass, something from my mother’s era. In my minds-eye, I could see the cracked wires hidden behind the old glass. EMFs generated by old electrical wiring caused some people to have feelings of paranoia. Was there enough old wiring in the room to create my feeling of being watched? I hated to think my brain was affecting by wiring, but the room definitely felt odd.
With my possessions moved, I was eager to escape the heaviness of the house. Perhaps our construction efforts had created toxic fumes, like cyanide that is found in treated wood. Even with the windows open, the air felt stale. I wandered to the backyard.
The only good thing about walking around in a depressed slump is it gives you a chance to see the ground, and in this case the grass. Locals called it centipede. It crept along, one blade crawling over another, rooting as it went. The cross-hatched carpet held the sandy soil in place, but it didn’t look much like Kentucky Blue. Staring at the web of grass, I realized it reflected the current state of my life: a maze with no way out.
I didn’t miss Barbara, but I did miss the opportunity she had provided. With Barbara gone, it was impossible for me to figure out why Jimmy had appeared to me. I would never know who the other ghost boy was, or what role he played in Jimmy’s death. And why would two boys, separated by a hundred years and four states, appear together?
Losing Barbara was like having the Internet crash: there were questions with no way to access the information. Maybe I should forget I had ever seen the ghosts, but knowing the spirits lingered in the house bothered me. Why couldn’t they move on?
And I would never forget the demon Barbara had contacted in the attic. She never resolved where demons went after leaving her. He, too, could still be lurking in the house. Could a demon hurt the spirit-Jimmy? I remembered the warnings going off in my head that first time I had met Barbara. I should have listened. I should have run.
Even in the warmth of the outdoors, my brain continued to spin like a top. A loud noise startled me, and I jumped and then felt foolish as I realized it had been a car backfiring.
I hadn’t been in Ted’s workshop since he moved it to the garage, so I ambled that way. My son-in-law was just what I needed to help me forget my other problems. His singing drifted across the yard.
He stopped when he saw me. “Hey, Bill.”
I looked around, pretending to be comfortable, one man out for a walk, stopping to talk to another. The cans were gone, along with the other junk. More trips to the dump, I imagined. More reasons for Mitch to be at the house. Since Ted had removed several of the smaller trees, natural light filled the room. In addition, a long utility light hung over the work area.
Ted stood behind his easel, the afternoon sun illuminating the space around him. Tubes of paint covered the surface of the old workbench. Small containers rested on a shelf, along with a radio and CD player.
“So what are you working on?” I asked.
“I’ll show you.” Ted turned a large canvas toward me, partially covered in shades of green, with bold red and blue, and bits of brown in the center. I had no idea what it was. It certainly was not like the painting he had done for Betsy. She wouldn’t have lied about Ted painting it, would she?
“It’s called Garden of Gethsemane. It’s not finished, but it’s coming along.
I stared, trying to see a garden in the random dabs of color. “So who’ll buy something like this?”
“It’s already sold. A church in Columbia wants me to do six pieces.”
“Churches buy real paintings?” All I remembered seeing in church was the usual cheap prints of Christ knocking at the door, and
the traditional Last Supper that someone had painted-by-numbers and donated.
Ted swatted at a mosquito that buzzed around his head. “You know, art shaped culture in the past. But sometime during the industrial revolution, art and religion got lost. Christian artists, like me, are trying to use art to bring others closer to Christ.”
“I don’t think many churches will buy paintings. That seems beyond what God wants in His house.”
Ted leaned against the side of the heavy workbench. “I disagree. In the beginning, God created. He dreamed and formed—and painted. And He still creates. He makes new lives, new worlds, new species. Our creativity comes from God; it’s one of His gifts to us. I think God smiles when we place art in our churches.”
Where was all this coming from? Ted had never talked so much before. “So how can having art in a church help someone’s faith?” I wasn’t so much interested as I was reluctant to leave his workshop. He believed I saw Jimmy. Maybe not his earth-trapped soul, but something. Maybe Ted secretly agreed with Barbara, that souls can linger. A spark ignited in my chest.
“There’s a spiritual dimension to both music and art,” Ted continued. “When Trina and I go to a Christian concert, the audience is moved by the music in a way words alone can’t. Art has the same ability to show God to the world. It’s another tool He can use.”
Here was my open door. “If there is a spiritual dimension to art, how about death? Is there a spiritual dimension after death?”
“What?”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked, impatience coloring my words.
“I believe in life after death, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did I see Jimmy’s spirit in the attic?” I blurted. My stomach churned. Did it really matter what Ted thought?
Ted was silent before he answered. “No.”
“Then what did I see?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been praying about it because I know it bothers you.”
“Of course it bothers me. It should bother you, too; it’s your house.” Why had I thought I could talk to this man?
“You led us to the fiber and bolt. Maybe that’s all that was to happen. I can’t explain what you saw, so I have to let it go.”
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