Children of the Prophet: Book 2: Expulsion

By J.G. Stevens

Souls in peril

Having been consigned to the abyss for its failure to get the souls of the sterling family the devil sent it back for another try. Once back it determined to wreak vengeance on the inhabitants of mid-valley. It succeeded in taking over its own son, Horace and with its help Horace became bishop in mid-valley. He married and had a child of his own.

While in Horace’s body the demon made special enemies of the sterling family. Its curse sent Mrs. Sterling to the hospital where the demon revealed itself and attacked her and her family.

Meanwhile Horace had married and produced a son, boyd, but his wife ran away with the boy. The demon in Horace tracked her down and killed her, leaving little boyd in the care of some rough teamsters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796065145

J.G. Stevens

Joe Stevens spent seven years in the Navy serving in Cryptographic Communications in Japan, France, and at sea. He graduated at the top of his class from The University of Redlands in California. He and his wife live in Brush Prairie, Washington State.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

666

A wildly gyrating demon was dancing amidst

tongues of flame while being prodded by a myriad

of miniature devils wielding red hot pitchforks.

!COME NOW TORQUEMADA! COULDN’T YOU COME

UP WITH SOMETHING LESS CLICHE’D THAN LITTLE

RED DEVILS WITH PITCHFORKS?! AFTER ALL, THAT

DANCING DEMON YOU’VE GOT THERE FAILED…

DEFEATED BY A CAT AND A HORSE NO LESS!

(The great beast is constitutionally incapable of

speaking without exclamation points.)

Torquemada had been appointed new Obersturmbahnfuhrer

of Hell’s Schutzstaffle SS to replace Himmler who had

been cast into the same pit as Hitler (a fate certainly worse

than death…especially for Hitler) for failing to successfully

complete the Master’s grand plot to subvert a whole religion.

*The above may seem replete with anachronisms, but time…

skitters…in the Master’s cavernous cavern. For instance,

Chairman Mao had joined them in a day or two.*

"Your pardon Senor Master. I fear I am

somewhat of a traditionalist."

!WELL…OK! BUT ONLY BECAUSE YOU’VE DONE BAD

WORK IN THE PAST! NOW TELL ME YOUR PLAN

TO RECOUP OUR LOSSES! AND IT HAD BETTER

INCLUDE THE BEAT DOWN OF A FEW ANGELS!

Si, Senor Master. As you know…

Torquemada went on to recap how a demon had overwhelmed the

mind of a man and successfully infiltrated him into a fledgling

religion in the New World. The demon eventually guided the

man, Lonny Berry, into a leadership position where he was on the

verge of subverting his followers when he was stopped cold by

a small band of angels, assorted spirits, and a horse, and a cat.

Frustrated, the demon attempted to pass on his legacy by raping

a young girl whose child was to be its pathway to the future.

By the end of Torquemada’s recap foul fumes

were snorting from the great beast’s nostrils (at

the moment it had dispensed with a nose).

!WHAT? YOU INTEND TO USE THAT IMBECILE

AGAIN! EXPLAIN! AND IT HAD BETTER BE BAD!

"Well, you see Senor Master it has already had its boots

on the ground and is familiar with the terrain."

!HMM! YES! I SEE YOUR POINT!

Repeating the same tactic while expecting a

different result is typical of the mind set in both

American political parties as well as Hell.

666

^V^V^V^

A small band of angels were discussing their own tactics after

hearing the great beast and Torquemada’s conversation by

way of a secret listening post in the netherworld cavern.

Great galloping sunbeams! Angel Leroy

was not happy. Here we go again.

Yeah, sighed Angel Herman. "But this is

what we signed up for. So let’s go."

"What do you mean ‘let’s go’," muttered Angel Hepsibah.

What’l you bet I get stuck on point again?

Thunder rolled and tongues of heat lightning flickered

over a Mid-Valley locked in the throes of winter.

I don’t think we’re going to like this, said Angel Herman.

You can say that again, chorused the others.

But please don’t," muttered Angel Hepzibah.

^V^V^V^

CHAPTER 1

1884, Enoch, Mid-Valley, Utah

A bitterly cold wind whistled through the eaves, puffing out rags stuffed under the weather warped door of the farmhouse. Gusting down the chimney, it beat at the fire sending glowing fragments flying through the room. Gingerly, Jeremiah Ward stuck one liver spotted hand out from under the blankets and swatted ineffectually at a sparking ember that had landed on the bed, succeeding only in fanning it into greater activity.

Damnation! he breathed to himself. Sarah will be upset when she sees a burn hole in her favorite blanket.

The ember sputtered out and a dwindling tendril of smoke wafted upward. A draft caught the smoke and scattered it like Jeremiah’s drifting memories. Sudden tears glistened in the corners of age dimmed eyes.

You old fool! he scolded himself. Sarah’s not here, she’s been dead for years. Besides, you know she could never abide swearin’. You’re gettin’ senile, that’s what. Your mind’s a goin.’ Pretty soon you won’t even be able to find your own way to the outhouse.

Sarah. Please, he called, ignoring his own admonition. You got to help me. I’m afraid!

As he spoke, his rheumy old eyes darted apprehensively around the room.

Out by the barn Jeremiah’s grandson, Horace Berry, was contentedly weary, ready for dinner and a quiet evening with his Book of Mormon. It had been a long day, but a job well done. When the first snowflakes of the season tickled his cheeks he realized something had to be done about the barn as well if the animals were to survive till spring. There was a little time left…but not much. It was snowing heavily in the mountains and chill winds in the valley were laden with the smell of winter. The icy air made for slow cumbersome work and it was difficult to make his numbed fingers obey, but at long last he finished patching chinks in the logs, sealing out the cold as best he could. Blowing on his fingers, he looked around.

"The whole world feels like it’s waiting for something to happen. The animals are restless, and snow in the mountains is getting lower every day. Looks to be a big storm coming. Sure as the world, this winter is gonna’ be a real whiz-banger."

Horace’s father, Bishop Lonny Berry, had died the day he was born. His mother Amanda and Grandmother Sarah passed away some time later, leaving him to care for his grandfather Jeremiah. As the old man’s health waned it became harder and harder to keep a conversation going. The Berry farm was far removed from any other habitation and the only real chance he had to talk to anyone was once a week at church. So he had developed the habit of talking to himself…or anything else handy…just to hear the sound of a human voice. With the exception of a few moos, baas, and neighs now and then answers were few and far between. So far nothing inanimate had answered back, but he swore if anything ever did he would sit down right there and have a nice long chit-chat with it, whatever it was.

Horace’s was a lonely life, and had gotten even more so after his grandfather took sick. Since then he had made do with sitting next to Jeremiah’s bed in the evening, indulging in one way reminiscences about old times or telling him about the work day.

I swear, sometimes I think if it wasn’t for the sound of my own voice I would have gone round the bend long ago. Even Grandpa’s snoring is some company, he informed some wildly uninterested cows huddled in the corner of the barn.

One creature ‘coincidentally?’ shuffled around so its backside was ‘facing’ Horace.

Well? What’s the matter with you? There’s no need to get all huffy. You know what I think? I think you’re just jealous because I know how to talk. He glared a challenge. What about that, cow? Huh? Cat got your tongue?

His answer was the shuffle of hooved feet as the cows moved closer together in order to share their body warmth. They didn’t stampede out of the barn, so he took their quivering flanks as a signal to continue.

Yeah. Its colder’n old Billy Blue isn’t it? Feels like my gol-darn nose hairs are frozen stiff. he said, deciding he ought to check on the farm’s small flock of chickens.

This time there was no answer at all. The cows simply huddled closer chewing their cuds, eyeing him with supreme indifference.

Hmff. Not very sociable, but for sure those old heifers are smarter than these fool chickens, he muttered, peering into the chicken coop and ruefully surveying a couple of Rhode Island Reds that had frozen solid on their perch. This is a darn shame…but I always say to look on the bright side of things. We won’t have as many eggs, but at least me and Grandpa will be able to eat good for a couple of days.

With a true farmer’s fatalism, waste not, want not, he pried the chickens’ feet loose from the perch, and holding them by the legs swung them at his side as he picked his way through the frozen yard to the house. Once there it didn’t take long to behead them and hang them up.

You two should be right tasty. I’ll just hang you here over this drip pan. By morning you should be all thawed and drained. And the pigs will appreciate a little taste of blood in their slops. He paused, frowning at the headless chickens. Blasted pigs seem to be the only things that thrive in this weather.

As the words left his mouth a gust of wind blew the kitchen door open. While grappling it shut he shivered with a chill that did not seem to be entirely physical. The air went flat and dead, and he could have sworn that something, or someone, was speaking to him in low gurgling tones; the words just below the threshold of understanding. Fear knotted his stomach, and he was on the verge of bolting from the house when everything returned to normal.

Whew! he muttered, shaking his head. I’ve been alone so much since Grandpa took sick I’ve taken to imagining things. Either that or I’m coming down with something. I expect I’ll have to get a tonic from the doctor up in Cedar before too long.

Nevertheless, he spent some time inspecting the kitchen for anything amiss. Discovering nothing he shook his head again, dismissing the episode as a momentary mental problem brought on by his solitary life.

Come on, Dummy. There’s nothing there. You got to see to Grandpa.

Horace had gradually taken on more and more of the responsibility for taking care of the farm as the old man’s health failed.

This farm’s a lot of work for one man, he told the hat rack as he hung up his sheepskin coat, but I don’t really mind. Grandpa took care of me an now it’s my turn to take care of him. I got to give him credit. A weaker man would have given up the ghost long ago. I’m sure glad he hung around, it’s tough to hold a decent conversation with a double bit axe. The young man ruefully shook his head. Yep, he’s tough all right, but I’m afraid it won’t be long now. Lately he’s gotten so he just can’t cut the mustard.

Again, that low dark sound intruded, but he steadfastly ignored it. Then, for a second or two he thought he felt an alien presence; like muddy footsteps in his mind, a very unpleasant sensation.

Frowning, Grandpa always says that kind of a feeling means someone is walking on your grave.

He stopped, grimaced, and shook his head, as if to clear it of cobwebs.

I tell you, Horace, there’s nothing there, this time to himself. Now pull yourself together an go see if Grandpa needs anything. Thank the Lord he can still get a few words out…and he listens good, even if he does tend to nod off at odd moments. It’s gonna get awful lonesome around here when he’s gone. But I could do without his ranting and raving about something coming after him that neither him nor me can see.

The wheezy sound of the old man’s voice drifted in from the other room. Horace cocked his head in exasperation.

Oh, Lordy! There he goes again.

666

!ALL RIGHT YOU CLOWNS. FROM NOW ON I AM

GOING TO CLOSELY MONITOR THE SITUATION.

YOU WILL NEVER KNOW WHEN I WILL BE

CHECKING UP ON YOU SO KEEP IT GOING OR

YOU WILL REGRET IT TILL YOUR LIVING DAY!

Every being in the rocky cavern came to attention

with frozen smiles on their faces and ‘we are in

such deep doo doo’ thoughts on their minds.

!HEY, CHEF. ARE THERE ANY OLD

BOLSHEVIKS LEFT IN THE LARDER?!

"Non, Monsieur Master. They have all been, as

we say in the profession, ‘consumed’."

!EATEN! CONSUMED! SAY, DID YOU JUST INSULT ME?!

Non! Non! Monsieur Master. The chef knew he had

screwed up royally, paled, and raised his hands in

pleading. "I assure you. I am your humble servant."

!WHATEVER!

The great beast loomed over the chef and sniffed.

The updraft pulled the chef off its feet.

!HMM. I HAVEN’T HAD FRENCH FOOD IN A WHILE!

Gulp…Chew…Smack

!ZUT ALORS. VASTLY OVERATED!

666

CHAPTER 2

1884, Enoch, Mid-Valley, Utah

Jeremiah was crouching defensively in his bed, babbling, practically incoherent. The noise he made echoed throughout the house as he alternately pleaded, cursed, and cried for help.

It’s Lonny! he said, mouthing the name as if it were a curse. It’s him. He’s back. I know he is. After all these years he came back somehow.

The last was a muffled delivery from deep under the covers. The old man clenched his gnarled fists in fear and frustration, pulling the blankets tighter around his age thinned body. Even as he yanked the blankets over his head he knew doing so was useless; a few layers of cloth could not protect him from what he knew was there. As he hunkered trembling under the covers the shrill keening of the wind deepened. Blurred noises rode bursts of air.

I know you’re there, the old man cried defiantly. And I know what you want. Well you can’t have ‘im.

The air seemed to congeal and vibrate with malicious amusement. Deep menacing words buffeted Jeremiah in a tone that rasped at his mind like a file on a saw blade.

<"You couldn’t stop me then and you can’t stop me now. He is mine.">

A sense of urgency spurred Horace when he heard his grandfather reach a new level of agitation. Turning from the headless fowls, he quickly shucked off his ice-rimmed boots, leaving them to puddle on the kitchen floor, and hurried toward the bedroom. Please Lord, he prayed. Please don’t be letting him have a stroke. He can be contrary at times, but I don’t know what I’d do without him.

A swirling of air and a ruffling of curtains greeted him as he entered the bedroom. A triumphant growling chuckle rode the wind up the chimney.

What the hell! he blurted, rushing to his grandfather’s side.

The old man’s body strained with the effort of breathing, a stream of unintelligible gibberish and spittle accompanying every weak exhalation. Horace’s reaching hand was clasped with strength born of desperation. Jeremiah jittered and swung his head around wildly, looking next to total collapse, but with a mighty effort he pulled himself together and his speech strengthened.

Stay away, Horace, he pled urgently. Get away from here or he’ll get you.

Who’ll get me, Grandpa? What’s going on? What was that noise I heard?

Jeremiah was full of the need to name his terror, but it took almost all he had left to give voice to that hated name. He took Horace’s face in both hands, bringing his own close to that of his grandson.

Lonny! he gasped.

The old man took in a great shuddering breath and started to say something else, but that ghastly chuckle returned, drowning out his words. His eyes grew wild and he shook all over, his slurred words were pleas for help riding on a wail of fear.

He’s come back, he wheezed, and collapsed into a limp heap.

The bedroom was encased in the cold of winter, but Horace shook off the discomfort, bent, and enfolded his grandfather in his arms, tears starting when he realized Jeremiah was no longer breathing. Rocking the worn out old body gently, he caressed the wrinkled brow and prayed. The smell of lilacs basking in summer sunshine invaded the room, banishing the cold. Horace noticed the change, but paid it no heed, watching the planes of his grandfather’s face slacken in death. The warmth and the scent of flowers slowly faded away leaving Horace crouching motionless, alone with his sorrow.

Shakes, fevers, aches, weakness, and pains had plagued Jeremiah’s aging body for years. Had it been possible, Horace would have willingly taken on the old man’s burdens. His loss was hard and would leave a void in his grandson’s life. After a time Horace gently laid the grizzled old head on a pillow, tucking blankets around the shrunken frame. Afterwards he lingered in a chair by the bed, impressing on his mind memories of the Grandfather he loved.

I’ll never forget you, Grandpa, he sobbed.

The hearth fire died to ashes and still he sat, cold tears shimmering on his eyelashes.

Time passed unnoticed as he hunched there, adrift in his sorrow. Near sundown he was roused by the return of that whispering draft of lilac laden air he had noticed earlier.

Well, that’s strange, he mouthed, watching the fireplace embers being fanned back to fluttering life.

Suddenly Jeremiah’s hand moved. With little jerks it crept out of the blankets, and then splayed open. Wide-eyed, Horace recoiled sharply as the body on the bed snapped upright, filmed eyes fixed and staring. The young man would have bolted from the room had not the reanimated hand darted out, clamping on his arm. The old man’s head swung slowly back and forth, seeming to track some invisible movement. Then it fixated on nothing Horace could see. Liver spotted lips moved, and the throat convulsed, forcing out words with an airy, rasping wheeze.

Sarah, is that really you? It’s been too long my love. I had almost forgotten how beautiful you are…but how…?

The age mottled face assumed a look of wonder.

I see. Does that mean that I will be young as well?

Delight blossomed.

It does? God be praised. What a wonder. These last few years have not been kind to me. I can hardly wait.

The body shifted into a listening posture, so attentive that Horace looked around to see if there was anyone standing behind him.

…what? Yes, tell Amanda I have done my best. The boy is a fine grown man.

Horace thought he must be losing his mind. To all appearances an invisible someone…his grandmother?…was discussing him with his dead grandfather.

No, His grandfather responded to an unheard question, I never told him. He knows nothing.

His voice sank to a whisper, taking on a slightly conciliatory tone.

I thought it would be for the best. I wanted him to have a chance to make his own destiny. How was I to know?

Then, agitated…

"He must be warned. You know what has been happening.

"Silence for a while, until in quavering tones….

…I love you too, my dear.…

The dear, time-worn face smoothed.

I’m coming.

Eyelids slid down over the blank eyes, and a last bit of air shushed out of the body. It shrunk in on itself. The head wobbled and bowed down to its chest in the silence of final death.

For a long time Horace steadfastly refused to accept the reality of what he had just witnessed.

I imagined it. Yeah, that’s it. I imagined the whole thing. Dead people don’t sit up and talk to thin air. The bedpost, to which he had been addressing his words, seemed to agree. I had a hard day. I imagined Grandpa sitting up and talking. Even if it wasn’t my imagination, it doesn’t mean anything. I’ve seen chickens run around after their heads have been lopped off. That must be something like what happened…yeah, that’s it.

With a determined shake of his head he tenderly positioned his Grandpa, hands folded tenderly on his chest, in the center of the bed. Using the sheets for a shroud he carefully wrapped them around the shrunken body. Having done all that could be done he built up the fire, tucked a blanket around himself, and settled down to observe a solitary wake.

^V^V^V^

The band of angels had been short-handed so it had been

beefed up by others with a variety of backgrounds.

Well, said Jean Claude Patois. "The world has

changed since my time. If we had had these

kinds of weapons Napoleon would have won

and we might be parlaying Francaise."

He said this in English as that was the lingua

franca of the heavenly hosts.

"Well an iffin it ain’t a darn good thing ole

nappy lost them there wars," said Ole Rube.

"Ahm fum the Tennessee hills an kin hardly

unnerstan what theyall call Anglish up hya."

Eh bien, mon ami, said Jean Claude. "Since I was one,

I do not think the French Poilu in those days would

have understood how to handle lightning bolts and

thunder balls as you do, so in that case I suggest we

stick together. I am as well having a bit of a hard time."

After giving each other high fives, the two spent

some time untangling their fingers.

^V^V^V^

CHAPTER 3

1884, Enoch, Mid-Valley, Utah

The sun’s first rays roused him to bitter drafts signaling the death of the fire. It was either bestir himself to rebuild it, or find warmth in his bed. Unwilling to leave his grandfather just yet he rose stiffly and went to the fireplace. He knelt and gently blew on the ashes under the grate until he uncovered a few smoldering embers, added some small shavings from a scuttle, and soon had a nice blaze going. Radiating warmth from the fire filled the room before long. Returning to the bedside chair he laid a respectful hand on his Grandfather’s remains.

Well, Grandpa, he declared to the unmoving form on the bed. I guess I’m all alone now. I’m sure sorry you’re gone. You were always good to me. You taught me a lot, and I’m grateful. I’m sure gonna miss you.

He dabbed at his eyes with the corner of a blanket, and sat for a while thinking. His mind tried to reject the thought, but what happened had not been a pipe dream brought on by grief. It had really happened…he had seen what he had seen. Grandpa had risen from his deathbed and talked to a ghost.

I do wish you would’ve told me what was going on last night. It was plumb spooky. Then his face screwed up into a look of puzzlement. But you know I wasn’t scared, leastwise not like in that darn dream I’ve been having lately. He paused, I surely would like to know what it was all about. Were you really talking to Grandma I wonder? Then, remembering a bit of the one sided conversation, You said Lonny had come back. That was my father’s name.

Mention of his father drew him down a morbidly familiar path.

The dream had periodically intruded on his sleep for weeks. Lately he could always count on it to invade his mind if he went to bed overly fatigued, or upset about something, and there never seemed to be a normal transition from wakefulness to sleep to dreaming. The second his head hit the pillow it was upon him, the scenario varying only in intensity.

He stood alone on a wind blasted plain with cold rain pelting down. Filled with misery and fatigue, he wanted nothing more than to leave that place. His muscles seemed locked in place, but with a supreme effort of will he forced his legs to move. He set out blindly, slogging wearily through grasping mud and vicious saw grass. He had reached the end of his endurance when a slackening of the downpour provided some scant hope. Far away, dim in the darkling landscape, he spied a subtly glowing brightness. Calling up his last reserves, he moved on. At length the glow resolved into separate shafts of light streaming from windows set in a large dormered house. Closer there was the tantalizing echo of music and laughter, the scent of fresh lilacs carrying a promise of sanctuary.

He was almost within reach of the front porch when the door opened and one of the loveliest women he had ever seen appeared. Haloed in the opening she smiled, beckoning as if to welcome him home. The scent of lilacs grew stronger and the music soared, their beauty melding with that of the woman. Black lightning flared as if in answer to the woman’s welcome. Immediately windows in the house began to slam shut, one after the other, until the only light piercing the darkness was that emanating from the open door. She reached to swing it shut.

No! he shouted desperately. The woman hesitated, peering around fearfully. Wait, please let me in, he pleaded, barely able to make himself heard above the fury of the storm.

In answer to his plea, she took a cautious step toward him. She had a lovely contralto voice.

Fight him, Horace. Fight him. You will be safe here.

Who are you? Who am I supposed to fight?

I am Cecilia Crowley. Your father kil…

The storm roared with vengeance, drowning out the last of her words. Glancing sharply at Horace she spun swiftly around, and moved back into the house. The snick of the latch was the crack of doom. Heartsick, Horace sank to his knees only to be jerked upright by a spate of sulphurous laughter.

Lightening crackled again and again. Revealed in intermittent flashes was a tall one-eyed man dressed all in black. He sported an unruly shock of blond hair; a deep dimple adorned his chin. His right eye was hidden by a black patch. The other pulsed bloody red.

Horace might have been looking at a caricature of himself. He made a faltering move to touch the man. When his fingertips made contact the dark man’s face split in a smile that incorporated nothing of humor. The pulsating eye expanded into a large seething orb, like a demon’s crystal ball. Within it wove a parade of death: a beautiful young woman, a missionary, an old man, others. Each took their place in line, each moving with fateful resignation. One by one each died, writhing in agony served up to them by the dark man who seemed to expand as he drank in their misery.

<Welcome, my son.>

Horace could never completely free himself of the dream’s morbid influence. The ghastly thing was repellent, although at the same time infernally seductive. It was only a nightmare, but seemed to be a portent. Only God, or the Devil, knew its significance. Now, alone in the thin washed-out light of winter, the body of his Grandfather by his side, he tried again to unravel the mystery. Thoughtfully, he bent to tuck in a blanket that had somehow worked loose.