Ancient Forces Collection

by Bill Myers

  “That is no concern of yours.” Her stiff tone surprised him.

  “Well, in a way it is,” Philip stammered, aware that she was growing defensive. He felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead. “I mean, you know everything about me. I figure it’s only fair if I know the truth about you.”

  Madame Theo’s stare intensified. She remained as frozen in place as a statue.

  Philip was finding it difficult to breath. “I . . . I couldn’t help but notice it was addressed to Rita Thomas, but it also said a.k.a. Madame Theo. So which is it?”

  “What do you think you know, son?” Madame Theo said, her voice deepening. Gone was the warm, grandmotherly tone.

  Maybe it was the incense. Maybe it was the fact that he had walked more miles than he could count that morning to get to his car. Maybe it was the lack of lunch. Maybe it was the anger he detected behind her eyes. Whatever the reason, Philip was growing dizzy.

  Light-headed, Philip felt as though the room tilted one direction, and then, just as quickly, it tilted to the opposite angle. Philip fought with his senses to gain some level of control.

  “I just need to know if you’re, you know, the real thing,” he managed to say, forcing a smile.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Please just tell me this. Did you live in Los Angeles?”

  No answer. But her nose flared as if she were a provoked bull ready to stampede.

  Philip figured he might as well go for broke. He had no idea what he was walking into. He didn’t even have all the facts because he wasn’t the one who had talked with Z. His curiosity got the better of him. He blurted, “Just tell me that you’re not the same Rita Thomas who faked her death. Are you?”

  “How dare you accuse me of such things,” she bellowed in a voice that was no longer her own. Her face twisted and snarled into a knot of rage. She rose to her feet and raised both arms as if calling upon unseen forces.

  Behind him, Philip heard a noise. His neck snapped around to see what was happening. The curtains that had covered the windows began to flap as if caught in a violent storm. He turned back to face Madame Theo.

  “Who are you to question my powers?” The card table between them suddenly defied gravity. It hovered three feet off the ground, knocking the cards to the floor.

  At first, Philip was too stunned to react. His heart pounded for all it was worth. “I . . . it was just a question — ”

  “Silence, foolish one.”

  Like a pinball, the table bounced off the walls and headed directly toward him. He fell backward in his chair to avoid contact, hitting the floor with a thud instead.

  “You cannot stop us!” the thing inside Madame Theo shouted.

  Seconds later, Philip stumbled to his feet when, from across the room, the table swooped down on him like a bat, smashing him in the chest. He slammed against the wall with enough force to drive out the air from his lungs. He blacked out.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” Scott shouted.

  “Hang on!” Becka pulled their mom’s car into the passing lane. “We’re almost there!”

  “Something’s wrong with Philip. I just know it,” Scott said, cracking his knuckles.

  Becka turned down the street where Madame Theo’s Palace was located. “There . . . on the right,” Scott said with a point. “That’s Philip’s car. Hurry!”

  Philip lay motionless on the floor. Where was he? How long had he been here? Why did everything hurt? A sharp pain seared his chest. A broken rib? Why was a table jammed against his chest? And why did it feel as if the table was still being driven into his body, crushing him?

  His lungs burned. His head throbbed. He had no strength. His eyes cracked open and the room spun. He closed his eyes for a second before trying to open them again. It was then that he saw the flames of a fallen candle smoldering on the carpet, burning a path toward him. He tried to move and winced.

  “I do not answer to you!” the unearthly voice said. Although her lips didn’t move, it was Madame Theo talking as she towered over him. She held a candle dripping with hot wax over his limp body. “You will learn what happens to those who doubt.”

  15

  Scott jumped out of the car before Becka had brought it to a complete stop. He bounded down the sidewalk as fast as his legs could carry him. If Z said Madame Theo might be dangerous, then Scott wasn’t about to take any chances. As he approached the storefront, Scott felt a distinct heaviness of spirit weigh down on him. A voice in the back of his mind urged him to pray.

  Becka raced to his side. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t you feel it?” Scott asked.

  “Now that you mention it, I do,” she said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Scott nodded. “Better pray.”

  “Jesus,” Becka said, grabbing Scott’s hand, “we’ve faced the evil one many times before. We know that greater is he who is in us than he who is in the world — ”

  “Or he who is in Madame Theo,” Scott added.

  “We bind the power of Satan in this place, in the name of Jesus, amen,” Becka said.

  Scott squeezed her hand and then pushed open the door to Madame Theo’s Palace. With a whoosh the air inside seemed to fight against their entry. Once inside, they were met by a whirlwind of drapes and a blast of pungent air. Scott’s eyes burned from the acidic stench of something smoldering. He coughed and, gagging, tried to breathe.

  “Over there!” Becka said, coughing. She pointed to the far corner of the darkened room.

  The tall, thin figure of Madame Theo was hunched over Philip, holding a candle in her hand. She turned and faced the intruders. “Get back!” she yelled in an agonizing voice not her own. Her eyes blazed. “He’s mine . . . he’s mine . . . he’s all mine. This is my domain!”

  For an instant, Scott flashed back to the nightmare — the one with Madame Theo circling his bed, jabbing him with her finger — but he pushed away the distraction. He stepped forward and said, “You’re a liar, Madame Theo! Philip is NOT yours.”

  With a screech, she tossed the candle toward Philip and raised her hands like a caged animal ready to pounce. The candle ignited the carpet where it fell. The flames engulfed the floor, devouring the distance between itself and Philip.

  Madame Theo clapped her hands together and the flames, like tongues of fire, started to swirl through the room, slowly at first and then faster and faster, creating a fiery wind tunnel that kindled fires throughout the room. The drapes on the windows. The curtains hanging from the ceiling. The coverings on the walls. All became inflamed in a ghastly chorus of fire.

  Scott knew if they didn’t act fast, they’d be consumed by the inferno. He took a deep breath and shouted, “By the name above all names, Jesus the Christ, I rebuke you!”

  Madame Theo shrieked and staggered backward.

  Becka stepped forward to join Scott. “We bind you, spirit of darkness.”

  “I will not be silenced,” the demon squealed.

  Scott held out a hand and the beastly thing stuttered. “I order you, father of lies, in the name of Jesus, be gone!”

  Madame Theo collapsed to the floor, screeching with a rage almost as hot as the flames around them.

  “Now!” Becka commanded.

  Madame Theo went silent. The wind in the room came to a rest. In the distance, Scott heard the rapid advance of sirens. He cut a path through the flames to Philip’s side. “Becka, here, give me a hand . . . hurry!”

  Scott looked at Philip’s reddened face. His eyes were closed. His breath was labored. With care, but working as fast as he could, Scott pulled the table off Philip. Philip moaned.

  “Easy does it, Philip,” Becka said. “Just hang on! Help is on the way.”

  Philip coughed up a mixture of phlegm and blood.

  “We’ve got to get him outside,” Scott said, stomping out the fire with his sneakers as the flames licked at Philip’s legs. They traded positions. Working together, with Becka now at his feet and Scot
t at his chest, they carried Philip outside and rested him on a grassy knoll under a tall oak tree.

  Scott wasn’t interested. Instead, he headed for the chat room where he and Becka had first met Z. He typed a message: Scott sat at his computer, exhausted. Although Becka was already fast asleep after the events of the day, it was just nine o’clock. Scott figured he’d give Z an update, that is, if Z was online. He typed in his password and paused for the appropriate greeting.

  As he waited, his thoughts drifted to Philip, who had been rushed to the hospital where he was being treated for three broken ribs, smoke inhalation, and minor cuts and burns. He thought of Madame Theo too, who had been handcuffed and arrested by two FBI agents as she tried to slip out the back door of her store.

  “Welcome, you’ve got mail,” the computer voice announced.

  Scott wasn’t interested. Instead, he headed for the chat room where he and Becka had first met Z. He typed a message:

  Z, it’s Scott. Are you online?

  The cursor blinked a dozen times before an answer appeared.

  Great job today, Scott. How’s Philip?

  Scott felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. How did Z already know how the day went? Scott smiled, amazed at the ever mysterious Z.

  I actually got to talk with him for a few minutes. He’s gonna make it okay. But you know what? Philip said he wants to give Christianity another try!

  Very good. I suggest you get him The Case for Christ. It’s a book by Lee Strobel.

  Thanks. He’s got plenty of time to read these days!

  Scott scribbled the name of the book onto a scrap of paper. He’d get it for Philip after school tomorrow. Scott was about to type a question when more words appeared.

  Scott, your parents are proud.

  For a second, Scott was puzzled by the statement. Z knew about his family and how they had moved to Crescent Bay after his father’s plane crash. They had talked about it dozens of times. Maybe Z forgot. Scott typed:

  My dad’s dead, remember?

  Scott stretched and yawned while he waited for a reply. He cracked his knuckles. After a minute, he scratched the back of his head, wondering what was taking Z so long to respond. It was, after all, a simple question.

  At long last, Z typed two words:

  Is he?

  Author’s Note

  As I developed this series, I had two equal and opposing concerns. First, I didn’t want the reader to be too frightened of the devil. Compared to Jesus Christ, Satan is a wimp. The two aren’t even in the same league. Although the supernatural evil in these books is based on a certain amount of fact, it’s important to understand the awesome protection Jesus Christ offers to those who have committed their lives to him.

  This brings me to my second and somewhat opposing con-cern: Although the powers of darkness are nothing compared to the power of Jesus Christ and the authority he has given his followers, spiritual warfare is not something we casually stroll into. The situations in these novels are extreme to create suspense and drama. But if you should find yourself involved in something even vaguely similar, don’t confront it alone. Find an older, more mature Christian (such as a parent, pastor, or youth leader) to talk to. Let him or her check the situation out to see what’s happening. Ask him or her to help you deal with it.

  Yes, we have the victory through Christ. But we should never send in inexperienced soldiers to fight the battle.

  Oh, and one final note. When this series was conceived, there were really no bad guys on the Internet. Unfortunately that has changed. Today there are plenty of people out there trying to draw young folks into dangerous situations through it. Although the characters in this series trust Z, if you should run into a similar situation, be smart. Anyone can sound kind and understanding, but their intentions may be entirely different. All that to say, don’t take candy from strangers you see . . . or trust those you don’t.

  Bill

  Read a portion of the first chapter

  of Dark Power Collection,

  Volume 1 in the Forbidden Doors Series.

  1

  Rebecca’s lungs burned. They screamed for more air; they begged her to slow down. But she wouldn’t. She pushed herself. She ran for all she was worth. She had to.

  There was no sound. She saw a few kids standing along the track, opening their mouths and shouting encouragement. She saw them clapping their hands and cheering her on. But she couldn’t hear them. All she heard was her own gasps for breath . . . the faint crunch of gravel under her track shoes.

  Several yards ahead ran Julie Mitchell — the team’s shining hope for all-State. She had a grace and style that made Rebecca feel like, well, like a deranged platypus. Whatever that was.

  But that was okay; Becka wasn’t running against Julie. She was running against something else.

  “It’s Dad . . .”

  For the thousandth time, she saw her mom’s red nose and puffy eyes and heard her voice echoing inside her head. “They found his plane in the jungle. He made it through the crash, but . . .”

  Becka bore down harder; she ran faster. Her lungs were going to explode, but she kept going.

  “You’ve got . . . to accept it,” her mom’s voice stammered. “He’s gone, sweetheart. He was either attacked by wild animals or . . . or . . .”

  Becka dug her cleats in deeper. She stretched her legs out farther. She knew the “or . . . or . . .” was a tribe of South American Indians in that region. A tribe notorious for its fierceness and for its use of black magic.

  The back of Becka’s throat ached. Not because of the running. It was because of the tears. And the rage. Why?! Why had God let this happen? Why had God let him die? He was such a good man, trying to do such good things.

  Angrily she swiped at her eyes. Her legs were turning into rubber. Losing feeling. Losing control. And still she pushed herself. She had closed the gap with Julie and was practically beside her now. The finish line waited a dozen meters ahead.

  Trying out for the track team hadn’t been Becka’s idea. It was her mom’s. “To help you fit in,” she’d said.

  Fit in. What a joke. Rebecca had spent most of her life living in the villages of Brazil with her mom, her little brother, and a father who flew his plane in and out of the jungle for humanitarian and mission groups. And now, suddenly, she was expected to fit in. Here? In Crescent Bay, California? Here, where everybody had perfect skin, perfect bodies, perfect teeth? And let’s not forget all the latest fashions, right out of Vogue or InStyle or whatever it was they read. Fashions that made Becka feel like she bought her clothes right out of Popular Mechanics.

  That last thought pushed her over the edge. She tried too hard, stretched too far. Her legs, which had already lost feeling, suddenly had minds of their own. The left one twisted, then gave out all together.

  It was like a slow-motion movie that part of Becka watched as she pitched forward. For a second, she almost caught her balance. Almost, but not quite. She stumbled and continued falling toward the track. There was nothing she could do — only put out her hands and raise her head so the crushed red gravel would not scrape her face. Knees and elbows, yes. But not her face.

  As if it really mattered.

  She hit the track and skidded forward, but she didn’t feel any pain. Not yet. The pain would come a second or two later. Right now, all she felt was shame. And embarrassment. Already the humiliation was sending blood racing to her cheeks and to her ears.

  Yes sir, just another day in the life of Rebecca Williams, the new kid moron.

  As soon as Becka’s little brother, Scott, walked into the bookstore, he knew something was wrong. It wasn’t like he was frightened or nervous or anything. It had nothing to do with what he felt. It had everything to do with the place.

  It was wrong.

  But why? It certainly was cheery enough. Bright sunlight streaming through the skylights. Aqua blue carpet. Soft white shelves with rows and rows of colorful books. Then there was the background music �
� flutes and wind chimes.

  But still . . .

  “You coming or what?” It was Darryl. Scott had met him a couple of days ago at lunch. Darryl wasn’t the tallest or best-looking kid in school — actually, he was about the shortest and nerdiest. His voice was so high you were never sure if it was him talking or someone opening a squeaky cupboard. Oh, and one other thing. Darryl sniffed. About every thirty seconds. You could set your watch by it. Something about allergies or hay fever or something.

  But at least he was friendly. And as the new kid, Scott couldn’t be too picky who he hung with. New kids had to take what new kids could get.

  For the past day or so, Darryl had been telling Scott all about the Society — a secret group that met in the back of the Ascension Bookshop after school. Only the coolest and most popular kids could join. (Scott wasn’t sure he bought this “coolest and most popular” bit, since they’d let Darryl be a member. But he didn’t want to hurt the little guy’s feelings, so he let it go.)

  “Hey, Priscilla,” Darryl called as they walked past the counter toward the back of the bookshop.

  “Hey, yourself,” a handsome, middle-aged woman said. She didn’t bother to look from her magazine until the two boys passed. When she glanced up and saw Scott, a scowl crossed her face. She seemed to dislike him immediately. He hadn’t said a thing; he hadn’t done a thing. But that didn’t matter. There was something about him that troubled her — a lot.

  Scott was oblivious to her reaction as he followed Darryl toward the hallway at the back of the store.

  So far his first week at Crescent Bay had been pretty good. No fights. No broken noses. A minimal amount of death threats. But that’s the way it was with Scott. Unlike his older sister, Scott always fit in. It probably had something to do with his sense of humor. Scott was a lot like his dad in that department; he had a mischievous grin and a snappy comeback for almost any situation.

  Scott was like his dad in another way too. He had a deep faith in God. The whole family did. But it wasn’t some sort of rules or regulations thing. And it definitely wasn’t anything weird. It was just your basic God’s-the-boss-so-go-to-church-and-try-to-make- the-world-a-better-place faith.