The Defiance

by Laura Gallier

  I’d been around Jackson a lot, but never babysat him—or any kid—in my entire life. I didn’t think Mrs. Greiner would trust me with the little guy overnight, but surprisingly, she welcomed it.

  I followed Ray Anne into her apartment, and she gathered Jackson’s things in cold silence. It felt like I’d lost her—her trust, for sure—but if I hadn’t confided in her parents, I’d have run a greater risk of really losing her. Like, permanently.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “Your parents love you. They’re doing what’s best for you.”

  She ignored me.

  I knew her parents really would do anything to protect their daughter, but I also understood they seriously underestimated the role spiritual forces played in a situation like this—not because they didn’t believe on some level, but they’d never witnessed it or seemed to ever take it in consideration in connection with their son’s suicide. Kind of like, out of sight, out of mind.

  Ray Anne headed toward the door with Jackson’s belongings, but I stood in front of her, stopping her in the doorway. I wanted to tell her I loved her, once and for all, but the risk of rejection was at an all-time high. “I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

  She stared back at me with heavy, hopeless blinks.

  Seeing Ray Anne like this, so broken and crushed, was a bigger nightmare than the one I’d had where bats plunged down Molek’s throat and I was nearly choked to death by a possessed shadow. Worse than every other fearful thing I’d lived through. And I couldn’t fix it.

  It was 11:00 p.m., way past Jackson’s bedtime. I did my best to give him a decent sponge bath in my bathroom sink, then I put him in his pj’s and set up his foldout crib in the corner of the room. It felt different being alone with him, like I was guarding Fort Knox all by myself.

  At least the snake nest was gone from my room and nowhere near him. There was a strong chance the astral-projecting witches might show up outside again tonight, but they knew better than to barge into the building, much less my room. And if Mother Punishment came sailing through the walls, hunting for Jackson, I still trusted he was safe with me. The same all-powerful Name I’d seen restrain every force of evil that sought to harm me was sure to work on her, too. There was only one bizarre exception . . .

  Nothing I’d said had driven away the invisible crying infant or the stalking presence from the sanctuary when they’d come to torment me. At least there was no sign of them at the moment.

  Jackson started fussing, and I mixed formula in a bottle. I daydreamed again about what it would be like for Ray Anne and Jackson and me to pack up and flee Masonville. Turn our backs once and for all on this toxic, murderous town and do what was best for us for a change.

  I gave Jackson his bottle, then walked around the room with him, patting his back, trying to get him to fall asleep the way I’d seen Ray and her mom do. Within minutes, his eyes drifted shut, but a slamming sound overhead woke him, followed by quick footsteps. Jackson had heard it, so I knew it was a material world intrusion. Finally an actual break-in?

  I felt completely vulnerable with Jackson in my arms—like a squirrel forced to defend its young against a pit viper. And the only Masonville cop I trusted had been murdered.

  In the seconds it took me to set Jackson in his playpen and grab my baseball bat, the prowler began stomping down the creaky third-floor steps, then the hallway, stopping outside my room.

  I dropped to the floor and spotted two semicircular shadows looming in the gap beneath my door. I grabbed my cell, resigned to dialing 911, praying an emergency operator would answer right away.

  I held my breath and kept silent, but Jackson started crying. There was no hiding now.

  “I have a gun.” I announced my lie loud and clear.

  Then came a knock. Not an aggressive pound, but a polite tap.

  Seriously? “Uh . . . who is it?”

  “It’s me. Gentry.”

  I sighed long and loud, grateful it was only him, yet still taken aback. I opened the door. Gentry’s eyes were bloodshot, like he’d either been crying or getting high. He wore one of his signature hoodies, of course, and clutched a duffel bag. “My stepdad kicked me out. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  I was willing to invite him in, but first I wanted to know, “Did you break in upstairs?”

  “I knocked and knocked on the front doors of the church but figured you couldn’t hear me. I walked around the back of the building and saw the open third-story window, and I mean, a tall ladder was right there.”

  I didn’t recall an open window when I’d been in the storage room the night before, but it was possible, I guessed. “And you knew this was my room?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “I thought maybe it led to another hallway or something and I’d find you eventually.”

  I welcomed him inside, and he furrowed his brow when he saw Jackson fussing in his playpen.

  “He’s not my kid.” I was super self-conscious that I was caring for a baby. “I’m just watching him for the night.”

  A sense of self-loathing washed over me. Had I really just referred to Jackson like he was some random child I happened to be stuck with, just to save myself a little awkwardness?

  I walked over and picked him up. Gentry closed the door to my room, then leaned against it. “Whose kid is he?”

  “Dan and Jess’s son.”

  “So . . .”

  “Yeah, he’s the one Veronica kidnapped.” I went back to patting Jackson’s back and shushing him, feeling awkward again.

  Gentry finally set his bag down, and the cuffs on the ends of all four of his chains clanked against the floor. He took a narrow-eyed, scrutinizing glance around my ugly room.

  “I used to have a really cool apartment,” I said. “I’m just staying here to help out for a while.” Wow. My pride was relentless. “So what happened with your dad tonight?”

  “Stepdad.” Gentry sat but stayed by the door, still feeling unwelcome, I think. “He accused me of stealing and pawning some of his tools, and no matter how many times I swore I hadn’t done it, he wouldn’t believe me. He called me a liar and told me to get my stuff and get out.”

  Gentry had been accused of being a traitor and punched in the mouth, then called a liar and kicked out of his home, all in one day. “Dude, sounds like it’s been rough.”

  He nodded. “You think I could crash on your floor tonight? I promise I’ll figure something else out tomorrow.”

  I already had one houseguest, but that wasn’t why I was reluctant. Gentry was housing evil; I’d seen it in him this morning. I didn’t want him near Jackson while I slept.

  “Ah, if it’s not cool with you, I mean, I can leave.”

  I couldn’t exactly explain my hesitation, and it wasn’t like I could try casting the Creeper out of him. Gentry would have freaked, I’m sure. At the same time, he was safe here with me from the spiritual powers that were out to eliminate him. So, the only solution I could come up with was to commit to myself that I’d stay up all night and keep an eye on both Gentry and Jackson.

  I gave Gentry a pillow and the only extra blanket I had. Meanwhile, Jackson was asleep again, so I laid him in his playpen. The smell of detergent on his pj’s was the same as Ray Anne’s clothes, and it made me really miss her. Surely she’d understand soon why I’d done what I did today. And she’d start winning the battle against her soul and be strong again. And still want to be with me and marry me someday in the gazebo by the lake.

  Gentry spread the blanket out on the floor and sat on it. “My brother Lance said you’d changed and gone all psycho and stuff, but, I mean, you seem alright to me.”

  I sat on the foot of my bed. “Unfortunately Lance and I didn’t see eye to eye on some things.”

  “He said you claimed you could see messed-up stuff on people and scary creatures everywhere.”

  It was basically an accurate description.

  “Is it true?” Gentry probed. Unlike this
morning, he was looking me in the eye. That repulsive mask of addiction faded in and out as my thoughts jumped all over the place, my compassion coming and going. “Can you really see stuff?” he asked me.

  I’d never had a shackled person believe my paranormal accounts, but if he was at all open to the truth, it was worth the long shot . . .

  “There’s a world that exists on top of our world, Gentry. And yes, I see it.”

  I expected him to laugh and grow scales over his eyes. Instead he asked, “Something happened in the woods, and that’s when it started, right?”

  Another detail Lance had obviously blabbed to him. But I didn’t want to make this about how I’d gained my powers, and I definitely didn’t want him knowing about the well on my property. God forbid curiosity get the best of him and he’d go serve himself a drink like Walt and Marshall had.

  Okay, I’d served it to them. But I’d miraculously managed to forgive myself for the lethal outcome and vowed I’d never tell another soul about the well, much less where it was.

  “Gentry, what matters is that there really is a fight between good and evil—a literal war—and you’re right in the middle of it. You and the others in your support group.”

  Sure enough, those vile black scales I’d once seen on Jess and my mom began sliding up his eyeballs—a sickening manifestation of spiritual blindness.

  I figured I’d shut up before his eye sockets became solid black, overtaken completely—a truly terrifying sight. But something else happened. About the most incredible thing I’d witnessed in a while, which was saying a lot.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE LIGHT AROUND MY FEET went from a soothing gold to a flash of glaring brilliance. I had to shield my eyes, but when I moved my hand seconds later, it had gone back to normal—and a pair of masculine hands made of the same golden illumination was reaching out from my aura. They were at least three times the size of mine—even bigger than a Watchman’s. Same hands that had crushed the curse in the trash can.

  The supernatural palms moved away from me, leaving a glistening streak behind like a jet trail, traveling like liquid gold across the room, reaching . . .

  For Gentry.

  The hands gently rested on him, covering his chest and neck and head, similar to how Jackson’s tiny body fit in my hands. Both thumbs reached and extended up and—I couldn’t believe it—pulled the blinding scales down, uncovering Gentry’s eyes.

  “What do you mean, we’re in a war?” he asked me.

  I stood, in awe of the situation. I knew this was it—my chance to testify without the shroud of darkness filtering out the truth before it had a chance to reach his soul. “Gentry, God loves you. He loves you more than you can imagine. You have no idea how he feels about you.”

  As much as I intended to make a solid case for the existence of spirit-world beings and explain the conflict he was in, the only thing that would come out of my mouth in that moment was an outpouring of God’s affirmation and affection toward Gentry.

  I could literally feel it. Like, tangibly sense God’s over-the-top attachment toward Gentry. It was like a dam had burst, exploding from my gut and rushing toward Gentry’s parched soul.

  He tucked his head. “I don’t believe in God.”

  I hurried over and lowered in front of him. “Yes, you do. You’re just afraid he’ll let you down and hurt you like people have. And you don’t want to give up control—being your own god.”

  The words coming out of me seemed to be just passing through my brain, not originating there.

  Gentry tucked his chin lower into his chest. “Look, I don’t need to be preached at.”

  And just like that, the miraculous hands eased away from him, slowly letting go, then vanishing into the aura around my feet.

  “Gentry—”

  “I’m tired.” His eyeballs were blanketed in black now. To make it worse, a different set of eyes stared me down through the slimy veils. The Creeper inside of him.

  Gentry lay down and turned his back to me. Conversation over.

  Yeah, it was rude of him, but I knew better than to take it personally. This was spiritual warfare—the way it goes when God reaches out to someone who doesn’t want his touch. When a guy harboring a devil believes his life is better off without God interfering in it.

  The same messed-up mindset I’d had for eighteen years.

  I didn’t say goodnight or anything—just turned off the lamp, then lay in my bed, restless on top of my covers. Awareness rolled in like crashing waves . . .

  The aura around my feet wasn’t just heavenly illumination, as if I was merely reflecting spirit-world light the same way the sun’s rays reflected off my motorcycle’s rearview mirrors onto my face. The aura on me was alive—a living, loving spirit in and of itself.

  The Holy Spirit.

  Had to be.

  And another epiphany: God wasn’t just watching over me from the distant cosmos or even occupying the same room as me. He was taking each and every one of life’s steps with me, from within me. And the inexplicable love he’d expressed to Gentry through me . . .

  It was soul-soothing beyond words, and believe me, I wanted to receive it for myself too—but I couldn’t. It was like I was sure, without a doubt, that God cared immensely for Gentry—even while being rejected by him—but there was no way God could possibly feel that way about me. Of course it was irrational, but it felt like my unshakable reality.

  I had another revelation. In the woods recently, and countless other times, I’d wondered how a loving God could make a place like hell. But now I realized that God didn’t want Gentry to go to hell—the only place in the entire cosmos where not one of God’s attributes is found. No, people banish themselves there by refusing his outstretched hands.

  It was a game-changing realization I’d desperately needed for a long time, one that finally debunked my false, conflicting assumption that God could be merciful one minute and cruel the next.

  And yet I was still all torn up inside. If only people understood.

  I was full of hyped-up energy, which helped keep me awake so I could sit up and check on Jackson every so often. At some point though, I relaxed enough to accidentally fall asleep. I woke to an ear-piercing sound, as loud as a foghorn, only high-pitched.

  I bolted out of bed, groggy and disoriented, my head pounding. Gentry’s pillow and crumpled blanket lay on the floor. It didn’t take long to scan the four corners of my room and realize he wasn’t here. Where had he gone?

  Jackson started screaming his head off, and I picked him up, aware now of the unmistakable smell of smoke.

  Fire alarm.

  I grabbed an open duffel bag with my free hand and started chucking stuff in it—my keys and wallet, my best Nikes, a few of my childhood photos off the floor. And thank God, I remembered to grab Arthur’s prophecy out of the nightstand.

  I tossed Jackson’s baby bag over my shoulder before rushing to the door and throwing it open. A heated blast of air and the distinct smell of burnt wood rushed past me, barging into my room like a smoldering tidal wave. I didn’t see any flames, but the hallway—my only passageway to the stairs, then out of the building—was filled with billowing smoke.

  Daisy darted into the hall, disappearing into the darkness. I called for her, but she didn’t come back. I pulled the collar of my T-shirt down over Jackson’s face and tried making a run for it. But the singed air was too polluted to get through. By the time I ran back to my room, it was gray with smoke, and Jackson was coughing.

  “God, help me.”

  I opened the double doors and charged onto the balcony suspended some twenty feet above ground. I figured if I had to, I could jump and endure the bone-breaking pain of hitting the ground, but how was I supposed to do that while holding Jackson?

  He started squalling, and I held him up in front of my face, trying to calm him. But he wasn’t crying.

  Of all the times to hear that invisible child.

  I yelled for help, but there was no one aro
und. I searched my bag for my phone, but I hadn’t grabbed it. I had no choice but to sit Jackson on the balcony floor and run back inside for it. I searched frantically through my bedsheets and on the floor, choking on the scorched air. And then I remembered . . .

  My nightmare.

  The smoke, suffocating me.

  Had it been God’s way of preparing me to die tonight?

  I couldn’t allow myself to think like that, especially with Jackson here, counting on me. He started crying, and I had two children bawling in my ears now. I couldn’t find my cell or the burner phone. I grabbed a pillow and charged back outside, thinking maybe I could wrap it around Jackson and lower him somehow. But there was nothing to lower him with.

  I tossed the pillow aside and scooped Jackson up, holding him against my chest. He was shaking like he knew his life was in danger.

  A short distance from us, menacing flames lined the sanctuary’s outside wall, devouring the building from the ground up like scalding tongues. Creepers converged on the scene, drawn to disaster like wolves to an injured lamb.

  Behind me, my room was so dense with smoke, all I could see were flashes of bright-orange and yellow. I knew any minute, the fire would spread onto the balcony, igniting the wood like a match.

  “Custos!”

  Where was he? And the Watchman with the shield on his back that I’d seen protect Jackson before?

  Smoke was pouring out of my room onto the balcony, a swirling mix of dark gray and jet black, sparks spinning like flying dragons.

  In a matter of seconds, my entire room was engulfed. It was so blazing hot, I leaned over the balcony railing, straining to keep a tight grip on Jackson’s squirming body, both of us sweating.