Prologue
Pastor
Timothy Ford Jr. woke in a cold sweat, choking down the scream in his
throat. He sucked in oxygen with heaving, gasping breaths that made
his bottom lip pop in and out of of his mouth, scraping his teeth
over and over until he could taste blood. He gripped the thin,
stretched afghan and held it firm against his chest with his left
hand, while searching the nightstand blindly with his right, until
his fingers locked around the cool leather-bound cover of his
father's Bible.
As
he hugged that old Book tight he found he could breathe again, the
hammering in his chest slowed to a healthy, dull rhythm. The scent
of the pages beneath his chin was venerable and comforting; the feel
of the leather against his bare chest, soothing. Already the
nightmare was fading, only an unfocused memory of pain and death.
And evil.
But
it felt so real.
With
a dying tremor of fear in his voice, Pastor Timothy whispered into
the darkness, “For
the wo-word of God is living and powerful, and s-sharp-sharper than
any two-edged s-sword, piercing even to the division of soul and
spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts
and intents of the heart.”
Speaking
the words helped to calm the young preacher. The verse was like a
shield that made the darkness feel less... gaping. He laid the Bible
in his lap and reached for the nightstand again, fingers fumbling
gently across several books and loose scraps of paper until he found
the thin chain which hung from the lamp.
With
a click,
the naked eighty watt bulb chased off the dark. Timothy gritted his
teeth, refusing to flinch away from the illumination as his eyes
strained to adjust. He was no lover of darkness, and no matter how
weak his flesh might be, he would never hide his eyes from the light.
And
the light was everywhere. Aside from the matching three foot
mirrors, which hung on each side of the room and reflected the lamp
so that no shadow could hide, Timothy's walls were bare. Bare and
painted with the cleanest, whitest white the preacher had been able
to find in the hardware store. Every surface in the room glistened,
reflecting the light of that single bulb and turning his room into a
beacon. A beacon which he was sure, if it weren't for the roof on
the house, would cut a brilliant swath through the soulless night
sky.
Even
his solitary nightstand, the only furniture he allowed himself aside
from his twin sized bed, was whitewashed. On that nightstand was a
lamp. It was the one thing that Timothy had not covered with that
awful, blinding white. The lamp had no shade, of course, because
Pastor Timothy knew since childhood that it was important to let his
light shine (hide it under a bushel? No! I'm gonna let it shine).
It wasn't the brightness of the lamp, though, that made it a
treasure—it was the base.
A
hundred years ago, the base of that lamp had been just a block of
wood. Until his grandfather, a wholly devoted follower of the Lord,
(or Lawd
as the old man had said it) spent three and a half years carving it
into an intricate tableau depicting the death of Christ. The Figure
on the cross hung limply, His face peaceful, His eyes closed, as a
tiny Roman soldier jabbed a spear into His side. Three women with
featureless faces knelt feebly before the cross, hands reaching
toward the Son. The colors of the lamp were stark—the blood was a
glistening crimson, the wooden cross all but black, the soldier's
armor like rust. And the Lord's face, as white as everything else in
the room.
The
lamp was the only thing left once his family picked through his
grandfather's things after his death. To this day, Timothy
remembered watching the old man's children (the preacher's mother
included) as they picked over the tiny apartment, squabbling for each
morsel. Every possession the old man had gathered through his life.
Pastor Timothy remembered thinking that the scene must have been much
like watching grave robbers fighting over the treasures found in a
pharaoh’s tomb.
But
nobody wanted the lamp. It was too old, too harsh, too ugly. Too
sincere, Timothy had guessed, even at his young age. Getting his
mother to allow him to bring it home had been a fight, but when she
finally relented, the boy had snatched it up and hugged it like a
teddy bear. Years later, when Timothy began his ministry, the lamp
was one of the only fragments of his old life that he held on to.
His grandfather's lamp, and his father's Bible.
Soon,
his pupils retracted and the light was less offensive. Timothy's
eyes were dry and sore, so he allowed his lids to drop for the barest
of moments.
With
a fizzle, the bulb winked out, leaving the room in darkness again.
The preacher could feel it. Without needing to open his eyes, he
knew that he was no longer alone.
With
a breath, he began whispering again, “The light shines in the
darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
“Tsk
tsk tsk,”
a high-pitched, gravelly voice rang through his skull,
“Wrong. You're always wrong, Tim-tim. If you'd just open your
eyes, you'd see that your precious light has left you. Again.”
It
was hard for the young preacher to breathe as a knot of fear swelled
in his belly. His hands shook so fiercely against the Bible in his
lap that it sounded like a child clapping somewhere in the distance.
Still, he continued, “For we do not wrestle against flesh and
blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers
of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in
the heavenly places.”
“Now
you're getting somewhere, Tim-tim. No flesh and blood here. You're
done wrestling now. Your light failed.”
“No.”
Timothy's voice quavered, even his whisper was frail. “I belong
to the Lord. You can't change that. Nothing can change that. You
are already defeated,” finally, he was able to grip the old Book
once again. “Begone, Unclean One!” he shouted with renewed
strength.
With
a pop,
the bulb flared back to life, coloring the world behind the
preacher's eyelids orange and pink. His throat clicked as he tried
to swallow the saliva that was not there. Timothy clucked his throat
until it unclenched and ran his tongue over his lips, over and over
and over. Exhaustion and fear and relief mingled until the preacher
was hunched over, moaning something that was between relieved sobbing
and hysteria.
He
let it out. The tears and the laughter rushed by in waves until he
was sure he was going mad. Then just as suddenly, they were gone,
and Pastor Timothy was sitting silently in his bed. He laid the
Bible back on the litter of books that covered his nightstand and got
up off the bed to get a glass of water. As he stood, though, he
caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror across the room from
his bed.
He
was only thirty-two years old, but his skin was pale and thin and
worn. He walked closer, stopping when he could reach out and touch
the surface of the glass. He ran his finger along the dark lines
which circled the turgid bags beneath his eyes, leaving streaks on
the mirror's polished surface. He parted his lips, showing his
darkened gums and yellowing teeth to his reflection. His once thick,
raven colored hair was now threadlike and being swallowed up by
patches of dingy gray.
It
was the
Voice,
he thought. It was coming too frequently now, stealing his dreams
and replacing them with unspeakable visions while he slept. It had a
way of shaking his faith, cracking the foundation of his beliefs, one
terrifying word at a time. And as he looked at himself in the
mirror, he knew that It
(whatever It
was) had been right about at least one thing.
His
light had failed. Whatever strength he used to possess, whatever it
was that he had that kept the Voice at bay for the last several years
had left him once again. Timothy dropped his hand from the mirror,
ready to walk away, but before he could turn, something caught his
attention. There was something wrong with the mirror.
After
a moment of confusion, the young preacher realized that his
reflection had not moved with him. It was still staring out at him,
hand pressed to the mirror's surface, eyes searching. The reflection
was reaching out for him. A violent shiver crawled over his spine as
he stepped in for a closer look. The other him, the one in the
reflection wore a cruel smile—lips parted, teeth too large and
soaked in shining gore, eyes colorless and dull. Blood ran free from
corners of his...
no,
Its
mouth, leaving ruddy streaks down the reflection's chin and neck.
The
reflection's fingertips broke through the mirror's surface as the
Other continued to reach for him.
Timothy
let out a guttural sound from deep in his belly—closer to a roar
than a scream, grabbed the edge of the mirror, and tore it from the
wall. The rectangular frame flipped and fell to the floor in an
explosion of glass that scattered mirror fragments throughout the
room.
“That
seems a bit extreme,”
said another of his reflections, from the mirror on the far wall.
The voice wasn't his, but it was just as familiar to the young
preacher by now.
Timothy
spun and saw the same dreadful face—his face, but broken and vile,
smiling out at him. Still reaching for him.
He
fell prostrate; shards of glass tore into his flesh wherever he
touched the floor. His knees. The palms of his hands. His
forearms. Timothy spoke out, voice barely a whisper, “The Lord is
my rock and my fort... fortress...” He was weeping now, tears
flowing and mixing with snot and spit on his face, dripping to the
floor. He stared down as he watched the blood from his palms
spreading into the carpet. The sticky, sweet smell of death
threatened to swallow him.
“You
don't get it yet, do you, Tim-tim?”
The
preacher flinched at the sound of his mother's nickname for him. She
was the only one who had ever called him that. Until...
“Your
words mean nothing. If I come from the darkness, it is the darkness
of the grave. The darkness of rot and time. If your god is up
there, he doesn't give a shit about you. You've been left here for
me to play with, and I'm not finished with you.”
Timothy
was woozy with panic, barely able to keep his mind in the moment. He
slid to the floor, no longer feeling the slivers of glass as they
rolled with his movements, grinding and churning his flesh, digging
themselves deeper. Into the tissue, the meat. Timothy only knew
fear.
Laying
there on the floor, Timothy could see the corpse, still and rotting,
beneath the bed. Ten days since he'd slit the woman's (Harlot's)
throat, and already the Voice was back to haunt him. Each time, the
blood seemed to be less potent than the last, while the Voice grew
louder and stronger with each visit.
As
the preacher drifted to unconsciousness, he imagined the oceans of
blood he would need to spill to fulfill God's mission. Whores and
blasphemers and homosexuals would scream. They would bleed. They
would repent. They would die.
Then
the
Voice
would finally be gone.
