The Journal of Ezekiel Walker

By John J. Zelenski

In the fall of 1945, just after World War II, Ezekiel Walker has returned home on a furlough from his Civilian Public Service Unit. As Ezekiel tries to adjust to life at the farm, strange and unexplainable events begin to occur at the homestead. When a stranger suddenly arrives with promises to rebuild the small town of Walker's Vale, a portal to the supernatural is opened and lives will never be the same. With seemingly no one at his side, Ezekiel is forced to become the man he doubts he can become and to finally understand his part in the war between the angelic and the demonic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peasantry Press
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781988276281

Book preview

Chapter One

Wednesday, November 28, 1945

I, Ezekiel James Walker, certify before heaven and earth that the following account is a true and accurate discourse of the events that occurred between October 29, 1945 and November 2, 1945.

It is with great sadness, brokenness of spirit, and most of all, humility before God Almighty that I recount the following sorrowful and unusual events that transpired on those dark days. I pen these words to serve as an everlasting record to the grace and mercy of my Savior, Jesus Christ.

I write this following account also as a testament to the Lord’s protection from evil. For now, I am certain that I have come face to face with Satan himself and have been delivered victorious by the precious blood of the Lamb. As I pen these words, my spirit still senses a heavy oppressive cloud over this fair town, which I can nearly distinguish as the powers of hell itself. Should I remain alive, I will commit myself to prayer and fasting daily, to thwart this present darkness that seeks to devour all that is good. Although evil may prevail for a day, goodness and grace are victors for eternity.

I can recall, quite vividly, the strange and frightening events that unfolded almost hour by hour during the said days and nights here in Walker’s Vale, Pennsylvania. With remembrance comes pain for me, but it also delivers me to a place where I can examine my heart and where my soul and spirit can be made new again. My Bible tells me that the Lord’s tender mercies are made new each day. For now, that is what I must depend on and that solely. For as I write this, I humbly recall King David of old who wrote, The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.

I never considered myself a man who could lead people, like my father could, but rather a simple woodworker by trade who toiled by the sweat of his brow. I suppose there must be time for both now that I must fulfill my father’s wishes, both earthly and heavenly. I pray for guidance, patience, and the Lord’s grace as I climb this hill alone, guided by an invisible hand. For with Christ’s help, I know I can do all things—should I survive these next days.

Many questions still filter through my thoughts as I lie awake on these cold and silent nights of winter, my sanity kept intact only by God’s compassion. I don’t claim to have any answers but only trust in my Savior, who knows best. Though I have been near slain in my body and spirit, yet, I do still trust him who has brought me thus far and will continue to do so until my work on this earth is finished. To God be the glory! Amen.

Chapter Two

Saturday, October 29, 1945

I had been on a one-week furlough pass from my Civilian Public Service unit and was not scheduled to return to camp for a few more days. I was, of course, glad to be back home. I did as much as I could to help around the house with chores and the livestock—especially because of Mother’s condition. I had been gone for nearly two months; however, my routine quickly returned to me as if I had never left.

The house, my home, was still colored in a light shade of blue with teal shutters. The grass, although now brown and brittle, still stretched from our front step past the willow trees and down toward the pond. Everything seemed the same, yet there was a different world around me. Everything had changed due to the war—including me.

The day had passed for me in its common manner of working, doing chores, and tending to my woodworking hobby; notwithstanding, something seemed rather peculiar to me. While the sun waned in the western sky directly above the yellow-and-orange tinted orchards, I sensed an unusual stillness in the air despite a brisk, chilly wind from the north. I also felt somewhat apprehensive in my spirit and mind as our evening meal approached. My parents, however, by all accounts, seemed at peace during and after our breaking of bread. The conversation flowed at its ordinary pace during my mother’s strawberry pie, which, I must confess, I will miss terribly. My soul and spirit remained restless; my stomach was still a bit unsettled even after dinner.

After a final check for the night on our livestock, the animals in our barn seemed inexplicably agitated by something as well, as if they could sense something approaching. I noticed an unusual and unpleasant odor, reminiscent of something burning, that emanated from the wooded opening connected to our property. Seeing no visible fire or smoke, and with the cold nightfall fully surrounding me, I decided that it must be something carrying on the wind from somewhere in the distance.

Later, around 8:00 p.m., my father was, of course, in his study, preparing for the Sunday sermon. My mother was reading her Bible in the rocking chair that I had made for her birthday. I sat on my workbench in the basement, staring out the small window into the cold dark heavens. Occasionally, rain or snow pellets would land on the glass and break my concentration. Not accomplishing much, I left my workstation around 8:30 p.m. and joined my mother for a conversation. Her light-brown hair was up in a bun, as usual, with only a few strands of gray that had fallen upon her rosy cheeks. Her soft brown eyes met mine, and although a grown man, I still found comfort in my mother’s smile.

I told her that I felt a bit unsettled, and she again reminded me how that feeling was not unusual for a young man of my age. Although she never explicitly said it, my mother would indirectly reference Genesis 2:18 into our talks: And the Lord God said, ‘It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him a helper comparable to him.’

At twenty-four years of age, I still found it very hard to make friends, let alone friends of the female persuasion.

I kissed her goodnight and decided to visit my father before retiring to my bedroom. My father was in his usual demeanor of seriousness mixed with a splash of well-placed humor. Never one to relax, he sat at his desk, still in his pressed white shirt and necktie. Lines of gray hair at his temples, which he called wisdom marks, melded with the rest of his dark, slicked hair. I did notice a few more wrinkles on his olive brow, as was to be expected from a pastor of a large congregation. I truly respected my father, even amid the horrific and unexplainable circumstances that had