Spirits: The Edge of Reality

By Roger Wright

Paul sees spirits. He sees into the spiritual realm of both angels and demons. He is a young business executive in Charlotte, North Carolina, and heads up the local office of an international marketing conglomerate.
His best friend, and old college buddy Rick, works as an undercover narcotics detective until he is savagely murdered by a drug ring moving into the Charlotte area.

Paul’s unique gift places him right in the middle of helping to solve Rick’s murder, but it gets complicated when not only does he run into danger, but so does his girlfriend Trish.

This story of murder, intrigue, romance, and the battles in the spiritual realm with angels and demons will keep you reading page after page until the very revealing thrilling conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669817475

Roger Wright

Roger Wright has had two separate career paths his entire adult life. On the one road, he has started, owned, and operated several successful businesses. These have ranged in scope from manufacturing, to distribution, and retail. On the other road he has for fifty plus years served in various areas of Christian Ministry. These ministries have included: pastoral, evangelism, missions, radio, television, prison ministry, and now writing. He started writing at age ten and has written for the pleasure of writing for over sixty years. Blogs, newsletters, business speeches, sermons, and now books blend into his background. Tens of thousands of pages later comes SPIRITS – The Edge Of Reality.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Nothing Rick had ever done or experienced could have prepared him for the raw savagery he was going to go through today. Neither his criminal justice education, his police training, nor his years of undercover narcotics work had taught him—how to die.

As he began to regain consciousness, he realized that the last thing he remembered was the shuffle of feet behind him, and now there was a ghastly searing pain in the back of his head as he woke up. As the grogginess began to vanish, the trunk opened, and he found himself being dragged out of the large spacious trunk of a car. Two muscle bound men picked him up as if he were a lightweight toy. Then they dragged him effortlessly across the dirty concrete floor. The black Lincoln had been driven into a warehouse and the door was already closed. He felt his shoes dragging on the old dusty concrete. He thought of how he always protected and shined his dress shoes, but these were his undercover scruffy shoes, so the scratch marks really would not matter. What amazed him most was that he was thinking about his shoes at a time when his life was unquestionably in jeopardy.

The big brute that held Rick’s right arm suddenly turned back to him and with a massive blow he thrust his knee into Rick’s chest. The other man turned him loose and Rick flew backwards in the air. The blow had knocked the breath out of him and sent him sliding on the floor at least ten feet. He landed squarely on his back on the concrete. His head smacked hard on the floor and the previous wound instantly became minor compared to this one from the shattering crash.

Before he could even open his eyes, he felt the bottom of a heavy boot come crashing down on his face. The two-legged animal’s heel had broken something, because Rick not only felt it, but he also heard it. As his fleeting consciousness drifted away from him again, he remembered thinking that this degree of brutality was not a good sign for him. Since they were treating him with such obvious disdain and hatred, he knew there was no release planned in his future. He had to do something.

Rick was still knocked out as the savages continued punching and kicking him before duct-taping him to a heavy wooden chair. Their instructions must have been to be especially brutal. There he sat for an hour before he began to regain his senses, and even his dulled senses told him he was in mortal danger. Welcome to the Jungle by Guns and Roses was playing loudly from the car radio as he tried to focus his bloody eyes. He looked around the barren concrete warehouse—nothing but floor and walls and its dirty, grimy windows that he could see nothing through. He struggled to see what he could, but he barely had enough strength to even raise his head. There were no traffic sounds; not a single horn blaring or truck engine roaring—nothing. He was on his own, and the fear he felt was that of one who knew he had no way out. Rick had known fear, especially when he had first begun his police work. He felt it again with even more intensity when he went undercover, but this was the most hot-blooded earnest fear he had ever experienced. He was hoping for any kind of miracle—anything to give him hope. Although his thinking was as unclear as his bloody eyesight, he still had enough clarity to feel a sense of hopelessness and despair that he had never even considered possible.

The alarming dread of his foreboding doom forced images of his past into his dizzy unsteady mind. Visions of happier, safer times invaded his dwindling expectations of a righteous end. Thoughts flashed through his mind with lightning speed of his mom and dad, of fun times with his buddy Paul, of fun with his buddies in college, of girls and partying.

His mind jumped back into his current reality, and he wondered what it would be like to die. He felt strangely embarrassed about who might discover his crumpled, brutalized, bloody body. Being at the mercy of the merciless gave him an eerie sensation of helplessness like an old man who cannot even feed himself. He had always been in control; now he had none, and he could not even utter a wasted cry for help any more. He wondered, could he find a way out, was there help on the way, had anyone seen him when he was captured—his hope withered in anguish. What happens after death; is there anything; was there a heaven and hell? Then…

The interrogation began as one of the thugs walked around in front of him and yelled to the other animal to turn the music down. Are you D.E.A.? Rick did not bother to answer. He already knew he was a dead man unless some miraculous form of intervention suddenly appeared. F.B.I.? Or are you just a simple-minded Charlotte narc? No answer as Rick struggled to look up at him through his blurry eyes. So, the evil beast just drove a mighty fist into his face once more.

As his head bounced back and forth from the blow rendered by the almost inhuman monster, his head seemed like it was on one end of a rubber band. He managed a distressed scream.

PLEASE!

Rick desperately, but he feared in vain, pleaded for his life.

The abused, taunted victim pleaded for mercy through blood dripping lips. His face had been brutally battered and was indistinguishable from the man he looked like only two hours ago. The cuts along his cheek bones and chin were deep from the brass knuckles being used on him. His hair, face, and clothes were soaked with his own blood. With every oozing drop of his life-giving blood, he grew weaker. The crushed bones of his face were showing through his spaghetti-like face. Every moment took him deeper into a weakened, desperate, failing world of slaughter.

He was duct-taped hand and foot securely to the heavy wooden chair. The screeching rock music had been turned back up and just added to his misery. With every beat of music, and with every heartbeat, he felt his diminished blood supply pulsing with pain throughout his whole body. Every time he had attempted to shake free from his bonds his captors laughed louder and just hit him even more viciously again. His mind struggled to think clearly and to figure any possible way out, but no solution came to his bewildered, fading mind.

Several demonic figures surrounded him like a pack of dogs hungry for more blood. They were callously indifferent to the suffering human-being before them. In fact, they relished the pain which made them seem to scurry about in a delighted, swirling frenzy. None of the men could see them, but they were there, shouting commands.

Another merciless strike drove his head to one side. His head would have been driven across the room had it not been attached. Blood splashed at least fifteen feet along the dirty concrete warehouse floor. This was nothing but vile sport to the human beasts. The dreary inhibited light came only through the dirty skylights and windows overhead. The cries and moans of his tortured soul echoed off the barren concrete block walls. No one could hear his screams, but he pierced the emptiness of the warehouse once again.

PLEASE!

Vicious taunting laughter rang out between the two malefactors once more. But what was even more evil, even more sinister, were the invisible demons that wove in and out of the two-man pack of wolves. They moved effortlessly through the air without the barriers and limitations of gravity or space that restricted the world of their puppets. The pack of human savages could not see them or hear them with their physical eyes or ears, but they obeyed their evil commands with impunity.

The demons relentlessly shouted their evil commands at them, and the pack of criminal beasts followed every heard but inaudible demonic command without exception. These hoods were mere puppets of their demon dictators. The demons orchestrated this evil concert of pain and agony with screams, exaggerated attacking movements, bedeviling accusations, and directives.

Hit him again. And they did.

Rick and I have been friends and next-door neighbors since childhood. We went through school and college together. For thirty-two years we have been there for each other. Today my friend Rick faced this horrendous onslaught by himself; he was on his own with no help from anyone.

I might have been able to stop them.

But I was not there.

CHAPTER 2

At Rick’s funeral I walked among the familiar faces of grieving family and friends. I grew up with most of these faces; they were younger looking when I was a child; the years had been kind, but Rick’s sudden and brutal death was taking its toll. Now each face showed the distress of losing one we loved. We all made our way quietly toward the gravesite, respectfully and mournfully – not wanting to face the truth. It always amazes me just how beautifully kept cemeteries are and how that adds to a sense of serenity. Today we need serenity. It was late Spring, yet some trees were still in bloom, the birds were singing their joyful appreciation of the warmer weather, and the carefully manicured lawn had turned a deep green. Everything contributed to make the irrevocable service so peaceful during this unpeaceful time. The quiet tranquility was in such a drastic contrast to the circumstances that brought us here. I had tried hard to be at peace, but my mind was a mess. I had so many thoughts racing—between deep sorrow and hurt, remembrances of the great times with my best friend of thirty-two years, the hatred for the animals that put him here, and the desire to wipe them off from the face of the earth somehow.

Along with the agonizing family members making their way toward the casket were also many men and women in police uniforms. Among them were some peculiar characters that couldn’t cover up that fact with a pressed dark suit. These were Rick’s fellow undercover narcotics detectives, and their normal attire was ill-kept, unshaven, and dirty. They had cleaned up and dressed up, but they had kept the hair and beards, and that did not match the cleaned-up funeral dress norm of their fellow slain and highly decorated police officer.

There had been a long procession of police cars and motorcycles. Their blue lights were flashing the whole way as hundreds of them slowly led us along the path of respectful citizens who had pulled their vehicles to the sides of the streets. I could not help feeling the honor, respect, and unity displayed by this brotherhood of officers. The family had declined the rifle salute as they felt it would be too traumatic. They had, however, accepted the 24/7 watch of the family, in case of any potential further action by drug dealers against them.

My mind drifted from the sad funeral processions to my time with my lifelong buddy. Rick was my best friend, and people would always look at us funny when we when out to a restaurant or nightspot. Here I was in my daily attire of business suit and tie, and there was Rick with his subculture druggie look. That was, of course, how he had to dress to blend in with the dealers he was working to arrest. And he did that very well; meaning he had plenty of bad-guy enemies.

Once we were ushered into a downtown ritzy restaurant. Hello sir; may I help you. The maître-de had said to me; totally ignoring Rick who was standing right beside me. I guess that in most people’s eyes clothes do make the man. The maître-de had no idea that Rick did so much more for him and his family to keep them safe than I ever could.

Rick and I had both attended the University on North Carolina at Charlotte and finished just ten short years ago. He had gotten a criminal justice degree while I was all business. I love business and everything about the art of making things happen in the business world. I love planning, goal setting, achieving, motivating team members, and management. The bottom line is my main driving force. Rick thought that it was the most boring experience anyone could have in life, but we were buddies anyway.

I thought he was borderline insane for wanting to hang out with criminals, live in a world of secrets, get shot at; and all for such meager pay with very little appreciation—if any. But we were buddies anyway.

Somehow neither he nor I ever thought it would end for him this way especially while he was this young. He was in a dangerous job, but he was careful, and he was a very good cop. What a waste.

Even though we lived just thirty minutes from campus, we decided we would live there in a dorm. I remember his schoolboy excitement as he discovered the nuances of his chosen profession. He would come back to the dorm room and tell me all about some new case study discovery that he had made. I thought he was nuts, and he thought my fascination with a balance sheet made me fit only for the loony farm with the other number crunchers, bean-counters, and nerds.

And now here he was, lying silently before all of us who loved him. I stood behind the family which was seated in the rows of folding chairs facing the casket; we were all friends, and we all mourned in our own way. The sobs from his grieving mother and sisters just broke my heart, and it was nearly tearing me apart to hear, but I was crying inside. I had cried uncontrollably when I got the news, and my girlfriend Trish had to come over and consoled me, because I just could not stop crying. I found it impossible to part with someone who had been so much a part of my world for my entire life.

I wanted to see him before the funeral, but the funeral director said he was way too distorted by the beating. We really have our work cut out for us, he had said. But they had done a pretty good job of bringing him back to his normal look, and so there was an open casket service.

After comforting words from the pastor, reading of Scripture, more tears, and final embraces, it was time to leave Rick behind. My first step away from him was painfully difficult; I could hardly move. I found it so hard to turn and just walk away. I was almost paralyzed with the thought of leaving my soulmate behind. The continual rush of lifelong memories made it so hard to think that it was now at an end.

I was deep in my thoughts when, as I was walking on the manicured lawn from the gravesite, a man approached me. Mr. Bentley? The stranger inquired.

Yes. I slowly turned and responded, looking at him, and wondering who he might be. He was a strong built man who I quickly sized up as a senior police officer of some kind. He carried himself with machine-like precision, and he gave off an impression of the kind of man I really did not want to tangle with.

Can I help you? I almost whispered, not really wanting to talk to anyone at all.

Actually, I hope you can. I could tell that he was attempting to be sensitive at the moment, but he found it difficult. I am Detective Captain Carson James, and I am, ah, was Rick’s boss. Now may not be the appropriate time… I immediately silently agreed and nodded without realizing I was doing it. …but we need to talk. Here is my card. Would you call me at your earliest convenience?

I like the brevity and directness of my regular no-nonsense business environment, but he almost seemed too direct and maybe even a little pushy with an almost military type of formality. I found myself staring at him without response.

Mr. Bentley?

I snapped out of my momentary trance, looked down at his card, and answered him. What is this about? What do we have to talk about?

Later Mr. Bentley. And he simply turned and walked away.

I knew instinctively that if I did not call him within a couple of days that he would just show up at my apartment or at my office, so, in my daze, I made a mental note to call him tomorrow. I watched him walk away with the confidence of a lion on the prowl. I could tell he was a man on a mission.

CHAPTER 3

My name is Paul. I do not remember when I saw the first Spirit, but I know I was just a baby. My mother later recalled how I would just look at the ceiling, from my crib, and just smile, and point, and coo. My mother would read Bible stories to me that added to my interest, and as early as I can remember I believed them all. I loved all the stories about the Biblical heroes, and Jesus was my favorite. My memories were always motivated by the love of my parents and my surroundings that they created for me. Then, with time, and without even noticing, it happened, I became the focus of the spiritual world around me.

The Spirits that I saw back then were all very nice, and at first, I thought it was normal and that everyone saw them. The realization that others did not see them began to come to me when my mother walked in one day while I was having a conversation with ‘my friend’.

I was about eight years old and had been having friendly talks with angels during visits for at least a couple of years. They were irregular visits, and always in my bedroom, and generally just before my bedtime. The angels were very pleasant and spoke softly to me. The first one had asked me to sort of "keep our little visit just between us if that was alright"? I said that it would be OK, and I never mentioned him.

Recently our discussions had even been about my bedroom décor. "Wow, I like what you have done to your room." Josh had said.

Do you like it?

I sure do, but where did you put all of your safari toys and your big giraffe and your elephant game?

Mom stored it all in the attic just in case I ever get a little brother.

So, I guess you decided on all the Mickey Mouse, Goofy, and Donald Duck paraphernalia since your trip to Disney World?

Para-fil…?

Paraphernalia. It’s just another word for stuff.

Oh. Yea I started collecting all this stuff while we were there, and the rest came from the local Disney store. Cool huh?

Yea cool.

But here it was one year later and there had been at least a half a dozen conversational visits. The angel that had come to see me that night was my favorite; his name was Josh. I was sitting on my bed and Josh was sitting in the middle of the floor with his legs crossed and wearing my Mickey Mouse ears. He was always funny. He was dressed like I dress—with sneakers, blue jeans, and a grey sweatshirt. He had long, rich, black hair that sort of tossed to one side. And he always seemed to have a ready smile that made me feel that he knew something that I didn’t. Of course, he did. How else was a kid my age going to know about the deep spiritual truths and big words that he taught me? We were discussing how the spiritual world differs from the physical world when my mother walked in. My back was toward the door, and she heard me say, I think that is really neat Josh.

Paul? She paused as she looked around the room. Who are you talking to?

I must have looked scared when I felt that we had been discovered because her face instantly reflected my concern. I didn’t answer.

Paul, I said who were you talking to? She said with that motherly firmness that demanded an answer this time. I had to tell her something, and my relationship with the angels had gotten so relaxed that I felt it would be alright to finally introduce Josh to my mom.

I was just talking to Josh. I nodded in his direction. He was still there but he had laid my Micky Mouse ears on the floor.

Who’s Josh? She turned her head to the side with a wondering look the same way my cat looked at me. I think back on it now and I guess she must have been wondering if I had gone into