Just shoot me. How can self-worship be God worship?
Finally, the electrified mock-rock concertina ends, and the exhausted room full of truth seekers (or true ignorers) take their seats and listen to the sermon.
Pastor Elliott is in his early thirties. His attire is perfectly manicured to reflect the current trend of people a decade his junior.
He’s a walking Instagram post.
He sits on a stool. No pulpit. And he reads from his “Bible app,” but the words don’t sound like the Bible I remember growing up. They’re… cheap. They’re modern, slang-riddled distortions of the old translations. Whatever version of the Bible he’s scrolling through with his overly scrolled thumb, it’s both relevant and completely irrelevant… amiss from what the ancient text says. I’m not sure how I know this. I’m not a Bible scholar. I haven’t even picked up and read one since I was a kid.
But it’s obvious even to me: church is no longer church. It’s a free concert and a message of tolerance and relevance.
I somehow make it through the entire ordeal without vomiting in my own mouth. I stand by the sanctuary’s exit (or is it called a worship center?) as people stream from their seats and back out into the city. Pastor Elliott exits last, walks right up to me, and extends his hand.
“Hey, Pastor Elliot. I’m Henry. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk about something.”
He looks a little surprised. I’m guessing he’s not used to people wanting to talk after his sermons, and certainly not wanting to convert to the ‘faith’ of electronic music and flaccid do-gooder sermons.
“Okay, sure, Henry. Let’s go into my office. What did you think of the service?”
I think you’re pretending to be a grown up, and you need to give up preaching and go back to your beard wax and craft beers.
“It was amazing. Music was great!” I lie to the pastor’s face.
“Yeah. We’re so blessed to have some of the best musicians in New York at our church.”
“I see. That’s fantastic.” I can barely keep a straight face. “And your singers… wow.” I can see the pride creeping over his face. He clearly thinks that the orchestrated charade has impressed me so much, that I’m ready to ‘make commitments’ and ‘tithe.’
Boy, is he in for a shock. He has no idea what I’m about to hit him with.
“So, what’s on your mind, Henry?” He takes his seat behind his minimalist desk, atop which is an open laptop and his smartphone.
I gush. I tell him every little detail. I skip nothing. I don’t exaggerate, but I make sure to punctuate my words and never make eye contact. Personally, I don’t care about his opinion of me. But I give it all I have. I want to see if he’s serious about his faith, and if he can give me something of substance, some clarity, even some guidance. I’m open to it, though I’m not open to him.
When I get to the part of my story where Fritz and I are in my apartment and disturbances start… he reaches over and picks up his smartphone, checks the time, then pretends to re-engage his interest with me.
I stop.
“Am I boring you, Pastor?”
“No! Not at all. I’m glad you wanted to talk about this.”
Lying piece of crap!
“So, I don’t know what to do. How do I make all this stop? Fritz said I should talk to you specifically.”
Elliott leans forward on his elbows and uses a tone that has been rehearsed, in a mirror, no doubt.
“Henry, I think the best thing you can do is talk to a psychiatrist.”
“Wait, what?”
“You’re seeing things, I’m betting. The city can get to you after a while. And you seem to have an unhealthy level of interest in all this stuff. Compound that with the stress of school and… well, you’re probably having an episode. Get yourself some help.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Of all the people who should be giving me spiritual guidance, I would expect a pastor to at least take me seriously.
“I’m not crazy, Elliott.” I’m no longer using the title pastor. I refuse to give him that.
“I’m not saying that you are. I’m just saying that…”
“I’m not seeing things! This is real. Fritz saw it, too. How do you explain that!?”
He shakes his head and comes up with the quickest, weakest thing that flits through his mind.
“You ever heard of the power of suggestion? Group hysteria? It’s a real thing. You guys probably had been talking about spirits and disturbances and worked yourselves into such an emotional state that you both subconsciously agreed to see the same thing.”
“Is that how all pastors respond to the supernatural? Just write it off as ‘mental illness?’” I can’t believe it. My mom would be losing her mind right now. I know she would believe me, and she would be so angry at this young self-worshiping pastor’s ‘guidance,’ she’d pluck the overly manicured beard right off his face.
He’s an insult to my mother’s faith!
My eyes gloss over, and my indignation radiates through my skin. I’m darting Elliott with silent fury.
“So, I have a meeting I need to get to. Come back and talk more after you’ve seen a doctor, okay? You’re welcome here anytime,” Elliott lies.
He thinks I’m one of the crazies. It’s obvious he wants me to leave at once. I can feel his nervousness. He’s alone in his office with a young man who he believes is mentally ill. I don’t get up right away but sit there stunned at his disbelief. He turns to his laptop and types away, brutally ignoring my presence in his office.
On the wall behind him, his shadow is dual cast, from the cheap florescent bulbs above, and the floor lamp in the corner.
The dimmer of the two shadows moves. Elliott doesn’t notice, but it slowly crawls up the wall like a four-legged spider and perches in the corner of the ceiling.
My neck aches, the hairs standing on end. I feel the sickening fear gnawing away in my stomach.
It’s here.
“Elliott, can I ask you one more question before I go?” I’m straining to hide the fear in my tone.
The young pastor never looks away from his keyboard but answers impatiently.
“Sure, Henry. What’s up?”
“Can you see it? It’s above you in the corner!”
He sighs and doesn’t bother to play along.
“Henry… look. I know you’re upset about what you’ve been experiencing. But I’ve already told you what I think you should do. Go get some help.” He turns to me again and begins a chauvinistic staring contest with me, exerting a passive-aggressive influence to get me to leave.
The shadow drops from the ceiling, its opaqueness deepening as it manifests more clearly behind his right shoulder.
I break eye contact with Elliott, my forehead hot and sweaty. I can’t help but look at the thing. It’s the first time I’ve seen it. And I can only describe it as a shadow… man.
Elliott doesn’t flinch. He tries to stare me down, and out of his office, unaware of the demon descending on him like a spider behind him.
“Henry, you need to leave my office. Now, please. Or I’ll have to call the police.” His tone registers his annoyance with me, but I could care less about his threat.
“Malfik…” the word crawls out of my mouth like a scared subway rat. The demon shudders, then reaches its hand into the back of Elliot’s head. Its fingers disappear as they slip into his skin behind the right ear.
“Beg pardon?” Elliot asks in a bored and irritated tone.
But before I can summon the command again, the floor lamp in the corner flickers. The laptop flies from the desk and smashes against the wall, and Elliot, startled at the sudden chaos, spins towards the sound.
His reaction is surprising for a Christian pastor: he takes his Lord’s name in vain and soils his chinos.
I jump to my feet and begin my retreat from his office, but I trip over my chair and fall onto my back.
The Algolim shrieks with pleasure and plunges its now bl
ack arm fully into Elliot’s skull. The young pastor twitches. His whole body jerks as if he’d grabbed a live electric wire. He falls forward onto his desk and succumbs to a violent seizure. His eyes roll backwards, and his mouth is locked open, bottom jaw quivering stiffly. His body, stiff as a board, is ravaged as every muscle and tendon strains and convulses. His fingers are pulled back like claws, and his arms jitter and bounce rapidly in the throes of the demon’s attack.
I spring to my feet and run down the hall and out the front doors of the church, taking with me a small feeling of guilt. I could call a staff member for help. I could call 911, myself. I could use the word to fight back. I could. I should. But none of those thoughts present themselves to me at the time. There’s only the mind-numbing terror of seeing the demon for the first time, and the desperate instinct to escape.
My feet pound against the pavement as I sprint back to the subway station. Clumsy and panicked, I collide with several pedestrians on the way. They shout, curse, and complain, but I don’t hear any of that.
I only hear the demon laughing.
Frustrated and defeated, I head back to the Village. Fritz is nowhere to be found, and my apartment is empty. My mind is ablaze with fear and confusion, and the only place I can think might feel safe… and sane, is the park.
I sit there on a bench next to the Arch, for the rest of the day. I’m still being followed by the demon. It’s watching me. I can feel it.
My thoughts return to Elliott. I think I may have just changed his religion. I’m sure that whatever the outcome of the demonic attack, he’s now a true believer.
Chapter 8
Shipley’s class is mostly empty. It’s Monday morning, and homecoming celebrations had raged across campus all weekend. The credit snatchers and academics are recovering from the festival of red Solo cups and the debauchery of collegiate life. No doubt, they’re taking advantage of Shipley’s leniency, or rather, indifference.
Only I, Shipley, the teacher’s pet, and the thing have made it to class.
Shipley looks at me and the other student, then grumbles, “If you’d both just stayed home this morning, I could have cancelled the class for the day. But… since you’ve troubled yourselves to make it this morning, I’ll go on with my lecture.”
Great. I need to talk with Shipley, and we could talk freely if we were alone. But this over-achiever forces the status quo on the situation. I glare at the goodie-two-shoes idiot sitting in the front row.
I pull a sheet of paper from my pocket and scribble a quick note to Shipley:
I need to speak with you. It’s getting worse. A pastor was attacked. I’ve learned a few things to fight against it, but it’s too powerful. Need help! Same place as last time. Same time.
H.H.
I fold the paper in half and drop it on Shipley’s lectern without saying a word. I leave the classroom, harassed by the understanding professor. The teacher’s pet just watches in wide-eyed disbelief at my boldness. He stays, of course, milking the professor’s time, and trying to be the best student in a group of one.
Sorry, Professor.
I spend the day on the move, careful not to talk to anyone. I’m terrified that the Algolim will attack anyone I interact with now. It seems awfully pleased with itself, and the fear it is able to knead into me.
Nine o’clock finally rolls around, and I’m standing directly under the Arch, scanning the crowds of nightlife seekers for the professor. Finally, he arrives.
“Couldn’t this wait until Wednesday, Mr. Halfmoon? Like I mentioned in writing, it’s best we communicate by notes in class.”
“Make it stop!” I get straight to the point, ignoring Shipley’s admonishing. I don’t mean to be rude, but it comes out that way.
“Henry… it will never stop. But you can fight it. Did you read the books I gave you?”
I’m crushed by the words.
“Only the first one. I found the symbol… and I used the word Malfik.”
“Shhhhh!” The professor looks wildly about us. “Not in public, Henry!” I have his attention, and he steps closer to me to keep our conversation almost at a whisper. “So… you’re learning. That’s good.”
“You were right. I don’t know what I don’t know. Fritz said I should go see a pastor… to get some perspective.”
“Oh? Really? Fritz is the expert on the supernatural, now, eh?” The professor has a playful, mocking bounce to his words. “And did you get your perspective when you talked with this ‘pastor?’”
“Well, I think that the pastor is the only one with a new outlook on things.”
Shipley laughs at my remark and pats me on the back. “No doubt he does, Mr. Halfmoon. No doubt.”
After a quiet walk with the professor around the perimeter of the park, I finally ask, “What is going on, Professor? Why has this thing chosen me?”
Shipley stops and looks me directly in the eye.
“Mr. Halfmoon, the war has begun. The Algolim are on a mission. And you’ve not been chosen by the Algolim… You’ve been chosen by the gods to stop them.”
“Time out. I’m sorry. But chosen by the gods?” Maybe I’m going crazy. If Shipley had said that before the encounter with the pastor, I would have assumed that his old mind was slipping into senility.
“That’s why you’re sensitive to the Algolim… and they are sensitive to you.”
I hesitantly carry on with him. “I actually saw it, the Algolim. In the pastor’s office…”
“A shadow figure, no doubt.”
“Yes! How did you know? Have you seen them, too?”
Shipley smiles. “Oh yes. I see them all the time. I was chosen a long time ago. Just as you are being singled out now. I completed my quest, so to speak. But the effect remains.”
The revelation stuns me. I have a sick feeling in my gut. I’m going to be seeing these horrible things for the rest of my life.
I don’t want to live with this. This isn’t the version of my life I had fantasized about. This isn’t the future I was expected to have, or the calling I ever dreamed of pursuing. True, I didn’t exactly have a specific career path in mind when I enrolled at NYU (which I now realize is a huge mistake) but demon-hunter was certainly not a consideration.
“I don’t want to do this, Professor. I can’t.”
Shipley sighs. “I realize that it feels overwhelming. But the need is greater than you know. And you’ve been chosen, Henry. The greatest callings choose us. Not the other way around.”
I feel deflated. The world around me no longer buzzes with potential. The great unknown future and the exciting prospects of a full, happy, and normal life has flitted from my heart.
“I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
Shipley’s brows furrow, and he looks down at his feet, continuing his walk.
“Take your time, Henry. No one can force you to accept the calling. You must decide. Whether you’re going to run away, hiding from shadows all your life, or take the charge of the gods and fight back… it’s up to you.”
The professor turns one last time and says in a most authoritative voice, “Do not speak to me again until you’ve decided one way or another… And please return my books to me at that time as well.”
As Shipley crosses the street and disappears into the crowd, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
“Hello?”
“Henry… it’s Mom. I… You need to come home.”
There’s cold, stony silence.
“What’s wrong, Mom? You sound scared?”
“It’s your father. He’s taken a turn for the worse and…” I hear her sniff, choking back the anxiety that precedes grief, “he may not have much time left.”
Like I mentioned earlier, stage three causes some concern. My dad has struggled with a cancer for several months, but the doctors were optimistic that it would be treatable.
Dad is one of those guys who sets his mind on a course of action and soldiers down the path with inhuman focus. When the doctors delivered the news that ch
emo was his best and only option, he threw himself into the treatments, bracing for the impact, the toil, that the poisonous remedy would have on his body.
That last time I spoke to my dad, he sounded as if a stone had been grinding the life from him. The determination and fight was still in his voice—the anger and grit to face his foe. But the intense, prickly, and plucky drive to throw himself head on into the fray with his cancer had waned a bit.
Still, his optimism, coupled by the doctors’ probabilities, was enough to keep hope alive for me and Mom.
But sometimes, the cure is more deadly than the disease.
Sepsis had set in, manifesting violently in the middle of the afternoon. Mom explains to me over the phone how she rushed him to the emergency room.
He’s in the hospital now, with Mom and some others, local friends, and extended family, who have rallied to her side.
My mom’s voice quivers. Her faith and her friends give her just enough strength to make the phone call to inform me of the situation.
“Mom, I’m on my way. I’ll catch the next flight out. Tell Dad I love him, and I’m on my way home.”
She doesn’t promise to tell Dad anything. She doesn’t even respond that I should tell him myself. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed into my throat, and I feel the blood draining from my face.
“Mom… is he…”
“The doctors have made him comfortable, Henry. He’s resting. He’s still with us. For now, but…”
“How long did they say?”
No answer. But I hear the sob being choked back in her throat and the sniffling.
“Mom! How long?!!”
“He’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.”
My hometown sits at the base of the Rocky Mountains, an entire continent’s distance west. Getting to the airport and buying a ticket for the next flight out alone will take half a day.
Henry Halfmoon Page 5