by Mike Duran
WHAT OTHERS HAVE SAID …
An unflinching indictment of lukewarm faith, a quickening call to fiery living. In Mike’s story, as in life, there is no stable ground between hot and cold.
—ERIN HEALY
AUTHOR OF THE PROMISES SHE KEEPS
With an eerie and thrilling premise, The Resurrection is a riveting story that touches on the raw nerve of every person of faith—that unasked question of whether it is, ultimately, all possible, truly believable…all true. Whether the great miracle of faith still exists in a world populated by deceit. A brooding and suspenseful debut that will give you goose bumps and make you think long after you’ve turned the last page.
—TOSCA LEE
AUTHOR OF DEMON: A MEMOIR
In The Resurrection, Duran’s prose is both lyrical and captivating, his storytelling entertaining yet thought-provoking. It was easy to forget this is his debut novel. I can’t wait to see what he has in store for us next.
—MIKE DELLOSSO
AUTHOR OF SCREAM AND FRANTIC
Mike Duran masterfully blends fear, evil, hope, and redemption to paint a memorable portrait of how even the least of the servants of the Light can overcome the prevailing darkness around them. The Resurrection is a debut novel that promises many more are sure to follow.
—TIM GEORGE
FICTIONADDICT.COM
Like the ominous events creeping into the lives of these colorful characters, The Resurrection sneaks up on its readers, alternately charming and challenging assumptions until the very end. Though this is Duran’s first novel, it speaks volumes about what lies ahead for this exciting new voice in Christian fiction.
—SIBELLA GIORELLO
CHRISTY AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR OF THE RALEIGH HARMON
MYSTERIES
Mike Duran’s chilling debut depicts a raging battle of faith as mysterious powers of darkness war over the inhabitants of a small coastal village. With echoes of Frank Peretti’s spiritual warfare and Athol Dickson’s lyrical prose, The Resurrection is a tale that is one part ghost story, one part supernatural thriller, and one part spiritual awakening. Duran leads the reader on a metaphysical journey where dangerous forces are unexpectedly unleashed when a boy is raised from the dead.
—MERRIE DESTEFANO
AUTHOR OF AFTERLIFE: THE RESURRECTION CHRONICLES
Most CHARISMA HOUSE BOOK GROUP products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. For details, write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.
THE TELLING by Mike Duran
Published by Realms
Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group
600 Rinehart Road
Lake Mary, Florida 32746
www.charismahouse.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society. Used by permission.
The characters portrayed in this book are fictitious unless they are historical figures explicitly named. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual people, whether living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Mike Duran
All rights reserved
Cover design by Gearbox Studio
Design Director: Bill Johnson
Map created by Mike Duran
Author photo by Alayna Duran
Visit the author’s website at www.mikeduran.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Duran, Mike.
The telling / Mike Duran.
p. cm.
Summary: “Zeph Walker has been blessed with an uncanny ability to sound souls—to intuit people’s deepest sins and secrets. He calls it the Telling, but he has abandoned the gift to his unbelief and despair…until two detectives escort him to the county morgue, asking him to explain his own murder”— Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-61638-694-8 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-1-61638-861-4 (ebook) 1. Young men—Fiction. 2. Psychic ability—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.U723T45 2012
813’.6—dc23
2012002368
First edition
12 13 14 15 16 — 987654321
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Acknowledgments
Part One: The Madness
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part Two: The Prophecy
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part Three: The Telling
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
For Lisa, who saw past the scars
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to give special thanks to the following: the folks at Charisma House who believed in me; my critique partners Merrie Destefano, Rachel Marks, and Rebecca Miller for their honesty, camaraderie, and laughter; my mother-in-law, Betty Morris, for her encouragement and support; Melody Fredricks for helping make this a better story; Jim Hooper, the Silver Fox, for making Endurance come alive; my agent, Rachelle Gardner, for her indefatigable zeal and professional wisdom; Alton Gansky, my editor, for his keen eye and love for words; the community of commenters at deCOMPOSE who keep coming back for more; the members of North Hills Community Church who walk alongside me; Janet Keough and Kelly Van Osdel for praying for me; and my family, who blesses me beyond words.
PART ONE
THE MADNESS
By Their smell can some men know them near, but of Their semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those They have begotten on mankind, and of those are there many sorts …
—H. P. LOVECRAFT, THE DUNWICH HORROR
On approach, fits and agonies of Mind assailed the author. Frightening displays of Workmanship most curious to the eye, as to be found in Cathedrals of religious origin, embellished the site. There rose before the ungodly
gash a Bloodless mound of Limbs and gristle, corrupt and inhuman anatomies, such as to be henceforward believed the very Pylon of Hell.
—JOURNAL ENTRY, JOSEPH BLESSINGTON
OCTOBER 1873
Chapter 1
He used to believe everyone was born with the magic, an innate hotline to heaven. Some called it intuition, a sixth sense; others called it the voice of God. Zeph Walker called it the Telling. It was not something you could teach or, even worse, sell—people just had it. Of course, by the time their parents, teachers, and society got through with them, whatever connection they had with the Infinite pretty much vanished. So it was, when Zeph reached his twenty-sixth birthday, the Telling was just an echo.
That’s when destiny came knocking for him.
It arrived in the form of two wind-burnt detectives packing heat and a mystery for the ages. They flashed their badges, said he was needed for questioning. Before he could object or ask for details, they loaded him into the backseat of a mud-splattered Crown Victoria and drove across town to the county morgue. The ride was barely ten minutes, just long enough for Zeph Walker to conclude that, maybe, the magic was alive and well.
“You live alone?” The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
Zeph adjusted his sunglasses. “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t blame you.” The detective looked at his partner, who smirked in response.
Zeph returned his gaze to the passing landscape.
Late summers in Endurance were as beautiful as a watercolor and as hot as the devil’s kitchen. The aspens on the ridge showed gold, and the dogwoods along the creeks had already begun to thin. Yet the arid breeze rising from Death Valley served as an ever-present reminder that beauty always lives in close proximity to hell.
They came to a hard stop in front of a white plaster building. The detectives exited the car, and Zeph followed their cue. A ceramic iguana positioned under a sprawling blue sage grinned mockingly at him. Such was the landscape décor of the county coroner’s building. The structure doubled as a morgue. It occupied a tiny plot of red earth, surrounded by a manicured cactus garden complete with indigenous flora, bison skulls, and birdbaths. Without previous knowledge, one could easily mistake the building for a cultural center or art gallery. Yet Zeph knew that something other than pottery and Picassos awaited him inside.
The bigger of the two detectives, a vaquero with a nifty turquoise belt buckle and matching bolo tie, pulled the door open and motioned for Zeph to enter. The man had all the charm of a cage fighter.
Zeph wiped perspiration off his forehead and stepped into a small vestibule.
“This way.” The cowboy clomped past, leaving the smell of sweat and cheap cologne.
They led him past an unoccupied desk into a corridor. Bland southwestern prints adorned sterile white walls. The stench of formaldehyde and decay lingered here, and Zeph’s stomach flip-flopped in response. The hallway intersected another where two lab technicians stood in whispered conversation. They straightened as the detectives approached. After a brief nod from one of the white-jacketed men, Zeph’s escorts proceeded to an unmarked room.
“We got someone fer you to ID.” The cowboy placed his hand on the door and studied Zeph. “You don’t get sick easy, do ya?”
He swallowed. “Depends.”
“Well, if you’re gonna puke, don’t do it on these.” He pointed to a set of well-polished eel-skin boots. “Comprende?”
“No, sir. I mean—yes! Yes, sir.”
The detective scowled, then pushed the door open, waiting.
Zeph’s heart was doing double-time. Whose body was he about to see? What condition was it in? His mind raced with the possibilities. Maybe a friend had suffered a car accident. Although he didn’t have many friends to die in one. Perhaps the Hitcher, that mythical apparition who stalked the highway in his childhood, had claimed another victim. More likely Zeph’s old man had finally keeled over. However, he was convinced that his father had stopped living a long time ago.
Zeph drew a deep breath, took two steps into the room, perched his sunglasses on the top his head … and froze. In the center, framed under a single oval swath of light, lay a body on a autopsy table—a body that looked strangely familiar.
“Take a good look, Mr. Walker.” The detective’s boots clicked with precision on the yellowed linoleum. He circled the rolling metal cart, remaining just outside the reach of the fluorescent light. “And maybe you can help us figger this out.”
Zeph remained near the door, hesitant to take another step.
“Go ahead.” The second detective sauntered around the opposite side, gesturing to the body. “He ain’t gonna bite.”
The detectives positioned themselves on either end of the table. They watched him.
A black marble countertop, its surface dulled by a thin blanket of dust, ran the length of one wall. In front of it sat a single wooden stool. The low-hanging lamp bleached the body monochrome. Zeph had seen enough procedurals and CSI knock-offs to know this was not an autopsy room. Perhaps it was used for viewings, maybe occasional poker games. But as the detectives studied him, he was starting to wonder if this was an interrogation room. Scalpels, pincers, saws. Oh, what exotic torture devices one might assemble from a morgue! Nevertheless, this particular room appeared to have not been used in a long time. And by the fevered sparkle in their eyes, these men seemed inspired about the possibility of doing so.
Zeph glanced from one man to the other, and then he edged toward the corpse.
Its flesh appeared dull, and the closer he got, the less it actually looked like skin. Perhaps the body had been drained of blood or bleached by the desert sun. He inched closer. Sunken pockets appeared along the torso, and he found himself wondering what could have possibly happened to this person.
The head lay tilted back, its bony jaw upturned, cords of muscle taut across a gangly neck. A white sheet draped the body at the chest, and just above it a single bloodless hole about the size of a nickel notched the sternum. He crept forward, trying to distinguish the person’s face. First he glimpsed nostrils, then teeth, and then … something else.
That something else brought Zeph to a standstill.
How could it be? Build. Facial features. Hair color. This person looked exactly like him. There was even a Star of David tattooed on the right arm, above the bicep—the same as Zeph’s.
What were the chances, the mathematical probabilities, that one human being could look so identical to another? Especially in a town the size of Endurance.
“Is this …” Zeph’s tone was detached, his eyes fixed on the body. “Is this some kinda joke?”
The detectives hunkered back into the shadows without responding.
Goose bumps rose on Zeph’s forearms as the overhead vent rattled to life, sluicing cool air into the room. He took another step closer to the cadaver until his thigh nudged the table, jolting the stiff and bringing Zeph to a sudden stop. He peered at the bizarre figure.
Their similarities were unmistakable. The lanky torso and appendages. The tousled sandy hair. Thick brows over deep-set eyes. This guy looks exactly like me!
However, it was one feature—the most defining feature of Zeph Walker’s existence—that left him teetering in disbelief: the four-inch scar that sheared the corpse’s mouth.
Zeph stumbled back, lungs frozen, hand clasped over the ugly scar on his own face.
“Darnedest thing, ain’t it?” The cowboy sounded humored by Zeph’s astonishment. “Guy’s a spittin’ image of you, Mr. Walker.”
Zeph slowly lowered his hand and glanced sideways at the man. “Yeah. Except I don’t have a bullet hole in my chest.”
The detective’s grin soured, and he squinted warily at Zeph.
“Indeed you don’t.” The second man stepped into the light. “But the real question, young man, is why someone would want to put one there.”
Chapter 2
Zeph had seen his share of miracles.
Once, on the circuit, he w
atched a traveling evangelist from Bakersfield fill seven cruets of anointing oil from a single vial. Try as he might, Zeph could not detect sleight of hand on the evangelist’s part. The “miracle oil” was auctioned to raise money for an additional wing for that church, a wing that was later named rather conveniently after said evangelist. That bothered Zeph, not because he coveted a church wing with his inscription, but because he couldn’t fathom using his “gift” to garner props.
Yes, Zeph Walker had seen his share of miracles. Some would even say he performed them. Nevertheless, the corpse lying before him was unlike any miracle he had ever seen.
“We’re treatin’ it as a homicide.”
Zeph wrenched his gaze away from the bizarre look-alike and stared at the second detective. He had introduced himself as Lacroix. A. J. Lacroix. He spoke with an enunciated southern drawl, one refined by culture or intentional parody. His gestures, like his inflections, appeared deliberate, if not theatrical.
“Course, this is pending autopsy, toxicology, and whatnot. Nevertheless, our estimations surmise a small caliber round at point-blank range—execution style.” Lacroix looked into the light and struck a contemplative pose. “Murder’s rare in these parts, Mr. Walker, as you well know. What’d we have, Chat, three last year? And two of those was that incident downtown at the bus depot. Drifter went E. Pluribus haywire, cut up a buncha folks, took hostages, and completed his descent into madness by shooting himself with a stolen revolver. Said the worlds were being fused or somethin’. Either way, at this juncture we find ourselves with another murder victim—which is unacceptable for a town this size. Which brings me back to my previous question.”
Lacroix leaned forward, hands spread atop the metal table, his white hair bleached under the light. “Why would someone wanna kill you, Mr. Walker?”
Zeph glanced between the men, his thoughts careening like a runaway diesel down the Black Pass. He could be out the door, down the hallway, and back into the parched, Death Valley air in seconds. The chances of this leathery old man and his booted sidekick catching him were slim. But why run? He had nothing to hide.
… unless you counted Blaise Duty, and the witch in the sanatorium, and that punk he busted up in the diner, and—