House of Lister

By ML Woods

After the death of their Northeastern Oklahoma minister father, Megan and Sasha find themselves as the human players in a manifested spiritual battle. Unbeknownst to them, it is a battle which has raged for centuries within their ancestral past, one dependent upon the continued intercession of the saints within the family. If they fail, Megan and Sasha will end up as human sacrifices on the altar of their spiritual enemy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eLectio Publishing
• Release date: Nov 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781632134615

Book preview

Prologue

Ireland, 1800s

In the heated still of the late evening hours of spring, the sounds of singing frogs, coupled with the occasional hoot of an owl, backdropped two figures as they swished through green, flowing meadows. Their brows were furrowed in deep contemplation. Their troubled thoughts caused them not to notice the glow hovering around them which was residue from having been in the presence of the Most High. They realized the meeting they left seconds before had set their destinies for the next few centuries.

Moments after moving from the green of the field, both figures traveled through wooden fences, then eased through earthen walls until they emerged into what should have been the quiet main room of their respective charges. The celestial beings watched in silence as chaos unfolded within the drab, gray room.

’Tis witchcraft, Mary Catherine. Shamus Lister held his chin high, his chest puffed. I tell you, the local get-together is a satanic organization. They are of the devil. His puffed chest deflated. He leaned his graying head against the mantel. The shadows made by the soft firelight bounced off the walls and seemed to add fervor to his agitated disposition. No signs of his earlier enthusiasm about being asked to be a member of the local men’s organization lingered.

The fire crackled. Mary Catherine walked to her husband and stood next to him, trying to digest Shamus’s incomprehensible words. She used one of her parched hands to rub a kink from Shamus’s back. Out of nervous habit she used the other to touch the bun of her own salt-and-pepper tendrils.

Perhaps Shamus misunderstood. Were they not being blessed, rewarded even, when Lucian Lockhart, the leader of the organization, asked Shamus to be a guest and potential member? The invitation had been years in the coming. They felt it meant they were accepted as members of the tight-lipped community where they had moved their two remaining children to settle along the banks of the River Nore.

Mary Catherine rolled her eyes to look outside the pane window toward the dusty street in the center of the tiny town where their small mercantile finally thrived.

Shamus’s body trembled underneath her hand. Knowing her husband well, she assumed he was attempting to keep at bay the doubt, which years of experience with him told her was probably trying to rear its ugly head. She figured her suspicions correct when he gulped air, an indication to her that he was on the verge of losing the self-doubt battle once again.

Shh, Shamus, she admonished. You will wake the children. Mary Catherine glanced to the second-level loft where their eighteen-year-old son, Isaiah, slept above their heads. She angled her body to the straw sofa in the corner of the one-room cabin to where their eight-year-old daughter, Emma, slept.

"Maybe Isaiah should be awakened. Shamus rolled his bloodshot eyes toward the loft. He will be married soon. He paused when his voice cracked. They will try to sway him as well. I do not wish my children to be plagued with this nonsense. What have I done?"

Mary Catherine put her arms around her husband in an attempt to comfort his fears while she worked at calming her own. She hoped the revelation would not kill her sixty-three-year-old Shamus.

I have spent the majority of the fortune we amassed within our lives—Shamus swallowed hard, clutching Mary Catherine against his chest—not to mention the lives of our other two children, coming here. Against his chest, it felt as if his trembling stopped. Shamus seemed once again in control. Nonetheless, Mary Catherine figured Shamus was still trembling on the inside. To do God’s work, he snarled. His tone of voice clued her to the fact that her suspicions were correct. He was wallowing in doubt.

You thought you were following the will of God concerning your family, love. No woman can fault her man for that. She hoped she sounded convincing. Not only he, but now even she questioned if he were following fortune. She lifted her chin to hide her inner feelings as much from herself as from her husband.

Shamus motioned to the bench of the walnut table situated in the center of the cabin. Maybe ’tis what we were meant to do, maybe we were meant to rid this area of the evil which plagues it. Maybe I should alert the authorities.

Mary Catherine drew in a slow breath. Shamus, we live in this area. The Lockharts are powerful people. She paused to steady the unsettledness coming through in her voice. Think hard before you decide to overthrow a family such as them. They dominate the entire lower as well as most of the upper basins. Please, Shamus, think of the children. Isaiah and Emma are all we have left. Mary Catherine’s mind traveled to the shallow graves with the wooden crosses in which they had deposited their two other children. She reminded herself the children were rewarded with heaven. At the moment it seemed a weak consolation.

You know the scriptures—‘suffer not a witch that she should live.’ Moral duty alone calls for me to expose the group. I cannot sit by, watching innocent women molested for the pleasure of men. He grabbed her hand over the table. What if it were our Emma?

Mary Catherine pursed her lips.

He released her hand before he turned his eyes to the wall. Or our Isaiah?

Mary Catherine’s audible gasp overpowered the crackle of the fire, and her hand clamped around her mouth. Almost as soon as it was placed there she jerked it away. Not since the days of Sodom and Gomorrah . . . She didn’t finish because Shamus lifted his chin, indicating he meant for her silence. Although she complied, the meaning of Shamus’s words took hold. As new members of the group, her children would be used. Her eyes rested on the ground.

What do we do? Mary Catherine fumbled with her hands. In a split second her loyalty turned against her neighbors. Her attitude turned to one of a mother’s fierce determination; she would not sacrifice any more children for the sake of the hostile people of this particular bank of the River Nore.

Shamus stood to his feet. Being the head of the house . . . a righteous man is . . . not always easy.

Mary Catherine relaxed her shoulders, knowing Shamus was watching the firelight dance across her features, gauging her reaction. The statement clued her to the fact that he held his pain in check for her.

The honorable thing to do is . . . His chest rose with his intake of breath. He looked down the bridge of his nose at his wife when her head whipped upward. We bring charges.

Mary Catherine gasped again, unable to restrain her own fear.

The pitch of Shamus’s voice rose in volume. We bring it before the church to let them deal with it. We may come out of this with nothing, yet the honor of the Listers will remain intact. Mary Catherine sensed the apprehension in his decision. ’Tis the honorable thing to do. Do not be distressed, he added.

Shamus, you know what this means. Shamus remained silent. She understood as a woman she had no say; her place was to follow the decision of her husband. Still, Shamus was a reasonable man who listened when she spoke. It means business will die off. Our neighbors will turn on us. The group is powerful in this area. We would be making enemies of the Lockharts, the most influential people within our circle. What do we do when we can no longer feed the remaining family we have? Shamus laid an arm across Mary Catherine’s shoulders. What if they curse us?

We depend on God first of all, woman. Shamus turned his focus to the fire and said nothing further until Mary Catherine again looked to the floor. If need be—he spoke in almost a whisper—I shall move our family to America. I hear a man can start a new life there. I hope, though, it will not come to such a drastic measure.

In her mind, Mary Catherine prayed for strength. She would follow her husband in whatever decision he made. He was the head of the house; she was a good wife. She nodded her acceptance of his decision.

Shamus cleared his throat and extended his hand toward their bed situated in the back of their home. Mary Catherine and Shamus readied, said their prayers, and then retired for the evening.

*****

So it has started. The angel hovering at the ceiling, assigned as the guardian angel of Mary Catherine since her birth, stated this to the angel assigned to Shamus. The light in the room faded while their charges drifted to sleep. As the Most High stated in the meeting a few moments ago, the walls of evil will come down in this little town, if not in this century then the next. He glanced across the room to Mary Catherine’s sleeping form. It all begins here.

Rosha, Mary Catherine’s guardian angel, shook his head in dismay. In the meeting with the Most High he was assigned the duty of Chief Angel in charge of the House of Lister. This battle will be long and hard fought. It will span into the next, and maybe even the next century. Time will see how it plays out. I am up for the challenge of keeping the Listers alive. Are you, my friend?

Dominance, Shamus’s guardian angel, nodded once. He was tasked as second in command over the House of Lister. Both beings dissipated into the walls while contemplating the battles ahead. They both realized after the deaths of their respective charges, they would no longer be tasked with a single charge. They were charged with the spiritual well-being of every Lister household member from here on out, until the generational curses which Shamus and Mary Catherine were being plagued with—starting with this evening—were dispelled and those in the Lister household were more than conquerors.

A third angel sat next to his charge in the unnoticed loft above the main room, next to young Isaiah Lister.

Isaiah Lister’s legs dangled over the side of the straw mat which served as his bed. Isaiah ran his fingers through his hair.

The angel knew Isaiah had listened to everything his parents had discussed, missing nothing, including the innuendo of his fate at the hands of the organization. Soon he would be starting a family of his own. Soon he would be running the business his father had labored to build. The angel felt if there was any way Isaiah could keep treachery from being the total ruin of his family, he would. The angel knew Isaiah had worked long, hard hours next to his parents after the deaths of his siblings. His honor and their memory would not allow him to let his father’s legacy be blotched or ruined. The angel also knew Isaiah had heard his father’s plan for America, and, with the angel’s urging, Isaiah filed it away in the recesses of his mind.

Isaiah rubbed his face with his palms.

The Lockharts will not be the ruin of the Listers. Understand this to be true, the celestial guardian assured Isaiah as a whisper which danced through his young charge’s mind. The angel hoped Isaiah heard.

*****

Two years before present day

It was the kind of dark one grows mad in if exposed to for long periods of time. The heat was suffocating. The sounds of teeth gnashing along with wails from the tormented penetrated the extreme black. Huddled in the corner of one of the cells within the multi-celled dungeon was the diminished heap of a tormented demon. His once bulky, now bony physique dripped sulfurous yellow droplets of demonic blood from deep gashes in his back. His name once instilled fear in the depths of hell. Now, because of Loren Lister, his last assignment, the demons of hell mocked him. His name was now Jester—he was viewed as a joke in hell.

Jester ran a long fingernail at the end of his bony talon through his yellow blood, pooled on the floor. He drew patterns to semi-light his surroundings, since demonic blood glows in the dark. How in such a short period of time—sixty-three years—did this man bring me to this kind of ruin? Jester knew the answer; it was the word of God.

A demonic shriek of agony bellowed from the dungeon cell next to his. Jester felt his stomach knot, aware of the fact his turn was next. The shrieks, he knew, came from an entity sent from the battalions of Deception to be his partner on his last assignment. Had Jester known ahead of time Loren Lister would be the generational curse breaker in the long history of the House of Lister, he would have bolted for outer darkness as fast as his wings could have flown him there.

Loren should have been an easy assignment. The plan laid out within the genetic code of Loren’s ancestors hinted toward a life of demonic luxury. The weapon Jester decided to use to keep Loren controlled was the sins of the fathers revisited upon the children. He reasoned that using it would enable him to breeze through the life of the forgettable man without incident. After all, since it had proved effective in keeping generations in vicious cycles for eons, it had become the evil one’s favored weapon of choice. Was I ever wrong!

A humorless smile spread across the demon’s face at how wrong he had been when he contemplated taking the assignment. The use of the sins of the father proved to be deceptive only to the demon. Although the rebellious middle son of a minister, Loren became a sold out adult. He studied the word of God. Every sins of the father which was pulled from centuries before was broken with this strong prayer warrior who had the favor of God the way King David of Israel had.

Anger boiled inside of Jester as he recalled how in the last years of Loren’s life, Jester made the lame attempt of using self-doubt, something that had worked with little or no effort on previous generations. At first, self-doubt showed some effect on Loren, so Jester, confident it would be what sent Loren to his grave, kept the generational curse deception in place. Self-doubt, the oldest and strongest deceptive curse ever placed upon the house, failed. Jester realized its failure when he overheard the last lesson Loren taught his girls.

How to defeat self-doubt. Jester mimicked to perfection the way Loren had presented the lesson to his girls, using the same tone Loren had used. Jester curled his lip. I hate the man.

Jester swallowed hard as the agonizing shrieks in the next room quieted, although he could hear the lashes continue to rip sinew from bone. The sickening sounds reverberated between the ears of the yellow-eyed demon.

The one consolation Jester had was in knowing he was not the demon assigned to the heirs of the generational curse breaker. Just as everyone was assigned a guardian angel at birth, so was everyone assigned a demon. He knew hell believed the weakest link within the House of Lister to be Loren’s eldest daughter, Megan. His gut feeling told him neither of Loren’s daughters, not Megan nor Sasha, were weak-in-spirit individuals. Whichever demon was assigned to them was in for a far worse fate than he.

Wait! Jester heard the punisher demon in the next cell exclaim to whichever demon administered the punishment with him. Lay the next lash in a few minutes. Let this one sting first.

No. This one’s had it. Jester heard another lash followed by a growl of pain. Let’s beat the next one now so we can call it a night. I’m tired of this, I want some real action. Jester heard the creak of an opening cell door. Jester’s breathing escalated. They were coming for him.

Wait, I need to . . . The voices of the punishers trailed off. Although Jester’s breathing steadied, he knew he had mere seconds before his punishment would begin.

Jester needed to think of a way to redeem himself; it was a question the punishers asked every night when they came in to torture him. Although it should have been a rhetorical question, this one was sincere, something not often found in hell. Since one-third of the angelic forces had joined the ranks of the demonic forces, demons had to be recycled, reused. There was no way they could be destroyed. They were wounded for centuries in floggings, then reused in significant battle. The time of flogging was shortened if a demon could redeem himself by coming up with a logical plan which seemed useful to the current cause of the evil one. If there was ever a time for Jester to think of such a plan it would be now. What could it be though?

What is it I know about the family of Loren Lister? Jester focused his attention on the heirs of the generational curse breaker. Although some children lived co-dependent, abnormal existences, the Word-of-God was the childhood reality of the children of the House of Lister. Megan, Sasha, and all their cousins thought everyone lived the same Bible-based life they did. This didn’t mean the House of Lister didn’t have skeletons in their closets. The difference was that in the House of Lister, at least one person in every generation would overcome through the Word of God at least one skeleton or curse of the previous generation. Jester saw no answers when it came to the heirs or the cousins.

The demon cocked an ear, straining to hear anything indicating the tormenters were returning. He heard nothing.

What about the plans of the evil one? The evil one had tried to destroy the house many times in the past. In the very distant past it was rumored he had even pitted another house against the Listers. It hadn’t worked well because it had also been rumored the human player used to overthrow the House of Lister had converted. The evil one must have been livid when the defector became even stronger than any member of the house he was already trying to take down. Or was that a prophecy? Jester could not remember.

A door creaked; someone was in the hallway outside Jester’s cell.

Time is running out . . . Think of a reason so you can get out of here, the diminished demon chided himself. Start with the problem—what is it? The main problem at the moment was the Lister house stood firm, growing stronger with each passing generation. Sure, the House of Lister posed a problem for the evil one, but the evil one seemed to be taking it way above any other problem before.

Of course, there has never been an heir of a generational curse breaker before. Why does this pose a problem? The demon tapped a long catlike finger against the brimstone surface of his cell’s floor. Three taps in he stopped. His mind whirred. The greatest weapon in the arsenal of the evil one is the deception of the children of the saints. If the children of the saints could be convinced they were destined to repeat the same avenues, including the sins, afflictions, and diseases their forefathers were plagued with, then the house was trapped in a never-ending generational circle. All based on deception.

A wry smile crept across his deformed face. So why does the evil one want to keep a house trapped in a generational curse deception? His thoughts took him to David and Solomon. David’s desire was to build God a house—a temple. Yet, God would not allow David to be the actual person to build it because of the spilled blood on his hands—his curse. Solomon, David’s heir, was free to build the temple because he had no blood on his hands. Therefore, Solomon was the generational curse breaker and the heir. The curse breaker is free to accomplish the vision unless he dies before he can; then the task falls to the heirs of the generational curse breaker.

What is the House of God now? His finger tapped the floor again. People! He straightened, knowing he was on to something.

So why would the evil one consider this house such a threat now? The demon pulled every nuance he knew concerning Loren Lister and the heirs. Loren Lister had been the last shard of hope for maintaining a generational curse deception plaguing the House of Lister. However, Loren took his job as spiritual head of the house much more seriously than some of his predecessors. Loren spent massive amounts of time in the Word making sure his children saw his efforts on a daily basis. Making sure his children saw his efforts on a daily basis . . . It seemed Jester could not move past the phrase. What was the phrase’s significance? He slumped against the brimstone floor. Again, he went over the short life of Loren Lister in his mind, contemplating every experience he remembered involving Loren and his heirs.

Hope waned in the demon. He knew Loren had shared the knowledge he gleaned from the Word and his relationship with his Lord with his family so they would know how to stand with God in the event they were without him. Loren taught his family the nuances of studying and digging information out for themselves, not just taking a preacher’s word at face value. He also showed them how to use a Strong’s Concordance, including the use of the Greek and Hebrew sections. He implanted a desire in them to find the deeper meanings and to lean not to their own understanding. He also abstained from entertaining anything that even appeared evil.

Jester sank back into the deep crevice of his cell. Despair took hold of his being. The most important thing Loren did out of everything was not only to have studied and understood, but also to have lived the lessons.

Loren’s girls knew that the curses the evil one controlled the House of Lister with broke with Loren’s death. Their knowledge made them super dangerous. With their kind of knowledge, other houses could be broken, as had been reported in the rumor.

So that’s why the evil one is so afraid of the heirs. This house no longer needs to simply come down, it must come down publicly. The demon realized with the girls possessing the kind of knowledge they did, they could teach other houses how to break generational curses. If Megan and Sasha could break the thought pattern in which the enemy had them conditioned, others could become aware of how easy it was to break a generational curse and then fulfill the task God has commanded, which always ended in winning souls to everlasting life. The goal of the evil one was for every human to face eternal damnation.

Although Megan and Sasha are insignificant nobody humans, they have to be brought to total ruin. Continuing to file through the memories stored in the recesses of his mind, Jester recalled one of Megan and Sasha becoming afraid. As children, they told ghost stories in the middle of their living room floor with Loren reclining asleep on the couch next to them. Jester realized that where fear is, faith is not. His thoughts went deeper into the memory. He stopped tapping his fingers. Confidence flooded every nuance of his being, sending life and hope and demonic strength surging throughout his system.

The door to his jail swung open. Wispy voices in the form of whirling wind spiraled around him. Do you have a reason which would help your cause? Do you have a plan which the evil one can use for his benefit? The two punisher demons materialized in the doorway, one pulling a cat-o’-nine-tails from his belt, the other dripping sulfurous spit from his jagged teeth.

Yes. Jester pushed his form up from the floor with his hands. He rolled from his waist until he stood to his feet, staring down the bridge of his nose into his tormentor’s eyes. Yes, I do.

The stones and bones laced through the ends of the cat-o’-nine-tails made an eerie sound as it clashed to the floor from the hand of the terrified tormentor demon staring up at Jester.

CHAPTER 1

Present day

Rosha’s wings rustled the air as he changed dimensions. His entrance into earth’s atmosphere produced a whistling gust of wind that howled across the planet’s surface.

Holding his ears to block out the other annoying sounds of earth, Rosha settled his bulk over a bustling street in the small North American town of Claremore, Oklahoma. He noted the town’s asphalt streets were flanked by white sidewalks in front of old-time buildings which housed antiques stores and banks. White-painted light poles adorned its corners like dangling earrings on a rich lady’s ear lobe. Although it was not much different from other rural towns within the United States, this nondescript town held great importance to Rosha because it housed the next human player involved with his centuries-long assignment concerning the House of Lister.

A frail-looking woman stood next to the street on one of the sidewalks. A swinging sign above her head had the words Rhapsody/Rejoice Christian Bookstore scrolled across it. Rosha glanced at the door of the Bible bookstore the woman was about to enter, noting all appeared to be in place for…What is her name? Rosha retrieved a clipboard from the sash draped across his robe and flipped through its pages. His lips pursed in a semi-scowl as he acknowledged that while God was all-knowing, he, an angel, was not.

Here it is . . . Megan Brewster, his voice boomed.

The air around again rustled, causing Megan’s long, auburn hair to whip around her face. Rosha’s eyebrows furrowed. He turned his head upward, realizing it was not his voice that had caused the air displacement.

A split second of blinding brightness lit up the skies of rural Oklahoma. An invisible rip was left in its wake. A tingle bounded down Rosha’s back. The sensation alerted him to the entrance of another spiritual being. Rosha grazed his sword with the tips of his fingers, readying for battle if the being were demonic. He relaxed his stance when Dominance spilled through the rip and then sealed it after his entry.

This frail-looking woman? Dominance pointed to the sidewalk.

Rosha laid a reassuring hand on the shoulder of his long-time compatriot. A giant was taken down by a small boy, my friend, remember?

Dominance clucked his tongue.

Knowing Dominance was about to go into a fit over the inadequacies of the human race and God’s infatuation with them, Rosha riffled the pages on his clipboard. Can you give me particulars off the top of your head about this charge? he asked.

Dominance’s expression softened as he went into business mode. Her name is Megan Brewster. Dominance flipped his wrist. Let’s see, she works for the Oklahoma Toll Road as a toll attendant, stationed at the gate here in Claremore. She hangs with her boss and his wife, Davis and Marsha Evans . . . Uh, she has been married to the same man, Mark Brewster, for fifteen years. Dominance’s head made an abrupt turn toward Rosha as if he were about to reveal a great secret. Childless due to some condition they believe she has which has left her barren. The marriage has been tumultuous to say the least. He has kept her under his control by, Dominance shook his head, her own values.

History repeats itself yet again. The manipulation of personal morality and values by those God’s people love is one of the most-used weapons in the enemy’s arsenal. Rosha returned the clipboard to inside his robe. What I would like to know, Dom, is her standing in the Lister household.

Dominance blew air through his nostrils, then pulled a small notebook from the inside of his breastplate.

She is the great-great-great-granddaughter of Shamus Lister. In one fluid motion Dominance ripped a page from the notebook and tossed it into the air. It expanded while it turned from white to color. Images came to life, starting with Shamus Lister. As you know, since our assignment as guardian angels of Shamus and his wife, Mary Catherine, there have been many changes in the house. Many curses have plagued the Listers because of their adversaries in Ireland. Dominance pointed a finger at the impromptu screen. A small red penlight appeared on the image of a male figure on the screen. One of the grandsons of Shamus moved almost the entire house to America. The American coastline came into view. They settled in Georgia, where they fought to diminish their accents. Throughout the years, one Lister after another has been singled out to be the primary plague carrier of the generational curses of the house passed from Shamus’s generation, presumably targeted because the enemy believed them to be the weakest link in the House of Lister. Rosha nodded his acknowledgment.

"There has been at least one member of each family throughout these generations who has overcome at least one curse a generation, causing the curses to become weaker.

The second to last house, led by Mercer Lister, had so many people within it who sought the Lord and his ways, the curses diminished by a significant amount. Now led by the oldest daughter, Linn McAlester, it seems the house broke all the curses—yet, not through Linn. Dominance’s face broke into a wry smile. It looks like the last of the generational curses upon the House of Lister was broken by Mercer’s second to youngest child and son, Loren, who was a minister. Dominance made a head bob to focus Rosha’s attention back to the screen, which turned to a man standing at a pulpit, dressed in a casual cardigan pullover. He waved his right hand, which seemed to be defective—the index and middle finger were joined together at the first joint. The man shown here, who was born with an obvious birth defect.

"You mean this Loren is the generational curse breaker for the House of Lister? Rosha tapped the screen page with his finger. The one who sought God and his might with his whole heart; the one who became friends with God the way King David was friends with God?" Rosha turned his attention back to Dominance in time to see him nod.

Dominance fanned through scenes on the screen like flipping through a photo album. It seems this Loren himself broke many of the generational curses plaguing this house. Again, Dominance fanned through, then back through screen pages. Something cannot be right here. He furrowed his brow as he met Rosha’s eyes. "This frail-looking woman, who has been kept under control by the enemy through her husband and the devotion of her marriage vows, is the oldest child and daughter of the generational curse breaker of the House of Lister . . . who only had daughters." Dominance’s eyes gleamed.

Rosha got a crooked smile on his face. Well, well. Rosha gazed upon Megan Brewster with newfound interest. It appears as if we are about to see real results within the battles involving this player.

Rosha grinned at Dominance’s incredulous glare. "We’ve found our boy with the slingshot, Rosha?"

Rosha’s grin turned into a broad smile. Seems as if we have, Dom.

Hmm, Dominance harrumphed, the boy did not keep losing his slingshot. Generational heir or not, she keeps losing her sword!

The heartiness of Rosha’s laugh at Dominance’s outburst swayed the sign hanging over the shop.

From birth, my friend, the Father in heaven has had a plan for her and her sibling. He is always in control. Rosha waved his hand toward the generational curse breaker heir, Megan Brewster.

*****

Tongue in her cheek, Megan eyed the swaying Rhapsody/Rejoice Christian Bookstore sign with suspicion. She rubbed a kink in her shoulder blade through the pink fabric of her turnpike uniform. Where did this breeze come from? she wondered aloud, ignoring the bustling cars whirring behind her.

Guilty of conscience, she glanced down the road to her normal hangout, Boarding House Books. The entertainment reading she obtained from her favored place would not cut it; she needed something more substantial. Brakes screeched from behind as cars stopped at the light, doing nothing to break her concentration on once again losing her New International Version Study Bible.

Her green eyes scrolled from the sign to the glass door. Another gust of wind whipped her wavy, auburn hair around her slim face. She brushed it behind her ear while she thought about how she’d had her Bible for twenty years. It was her crutch, the words by which she lived her life. She knew a different one would have to be marked up again—hard to do after having the same one for so long.

Think where it is, Megan, it always turns up sooner or later. Bibles were expensive. She dreaded buying a new one. She imagined the fit Mark would have at her spending the kind of money it took to buy a good Bible. He would consider the expenditure frivolous.

Bite the bullet, Megan, go in and get one!

Well, I’m already here. I could at least see what they have, she reasoned, feeling all-out guilty about betraying her loyalty to Boarding House. Mustering courage, she took a deep breath and shrugged through the door.

Once she was inside the wind stopped, and the sounds of cars were substituted with an organ playing Amazing Grace over loudspeakers. Peace replaced the chaos in her soul so she browsed the selections of the small store.

A few pictures of biblical scenes lined its walls while figurines of Bible-based characters occupied the shelves. Megan stared down the gray indoor-outdoor-carpeted aisles until she caught sight of the picture books designed for children. The one she chose was illustrated with King Saul and soon to be King David on the cover.

Although the graphics were engaging, the proprietor’s voice pulled her concentration to the register, where her vision was filled with a lady sporting an old-fashioned beehive hairdo piled on top of her head. The lady was assisting what appeared to be a sleep-deprived young woman who pushed a stroller. Megan turned her eyes back to the book when she saw tiny little arms hover above the stroller sides.

Just as everyone . . .

Megan’s heart rate escalated. She dropped the book, which crashed at her feet onto the floor. Her head rocked back and forth as she scanned the aisles for the familiar voice which audibly spoke the words to her.

I must have imagined it! She chastised her unease because the voice was that of her mentor. She’d learned at his feet from the time of her birth until his untimely death two years before. When her heart rate calmed, she returned the book to its shelf and then moved to the Bibles.

The Bible selection was large in comparison to the rest of the merchandise in the store. Megan fingered a leather-bound Bible marked Dake’s Annotated Edition on the spine.

You’ll be proud of this fine children’s storybook. You will be able to teach your young one from its pages . . . The deep voice of the proprietor, still busy with the mother, again pulled Megan’s eyes to the register. The baby’s tiny arms still waved in the air above the stroller edge while a soft coo could be heard from within. Megan’s heart ached. A child was the one thing Mark seemed to want most in the world and the one thing she was unable to give him. Her shoulders slouched, and her head turned back to where she could again see the leather-bound Dake’s.

Daddy was studying Hebrews when last we spoke. Megan flipped to the book while she contemplated how Dake’s was his favored biblical translation.

The front door somehow blew open then slammed shut, allowing no one entrance. The wind through the open doorway blew the Bible pages to I Samuel 28, the story of the witch of Endor and King Saul. Megan’s eyebrows drew together in a confused scowl.

Just as everyone . . .

She dropped the Bible to the ground while she whipped her head around to locate the source of the voice. She saw nothing.

The proprietor cleared her throat, getting Megan’s attention. Can I help you, miss? Although friendly, the deep-voiced woman scowled at Megan and her eyes bounced to the expensive Bible on the floor.

Megan shook her head and stooped to retrieve the Bible and replaced it on the shelf. She gave the proprietor no time to comment because she rushed out the door.

Maybe I should ask Mom, she muttered under her breath. Almost as soon as she thought it, she remembered the pact she made with her younger sister, Sasha, concerning their mother. Since their father’s death, the ladies did their best to keep any unpleasant or unusual thing from her.

Megan walked around the brick building to where her gray Impala was parked. After sliding behind the wheel, she bit her lower lip. The gesture steadied her nerves. She threw an arm across the seat back so she could back the car onto Will Rogers Boulevard. If not Mom, then maybe Sasha can tell me why Dad’s voice has started popping up out of the blue.

She pointed her car toward the west end of town to the large grocer located there. A dual wave of I-miss-Sasha-since-she-moved-to-Houston and fear of the voice washed through her. A spirit of unease settled upon her.

The words fear not breathed through Megan’s mind. She allowed peace to settle the unease then centered her thoughts on what she would make for dinner. A popular secular tune interrupted her plans. Recognizing her cell phone’s ringtone, she grinned. Although the impatient traveler behind her at the stop light honked their horn, Megan breathed a sigh of relief at the name of the caller.

Megan accelerated through the light and turned into the crowded parking area of the grocer, then pressed the answer button. Hello, Mark.

Megan found a parking spot and pulled in. Why? She turned off the engine but didn’t remove the key from it. Sneakers? . . . Later?

CHAPTER 2

 . . . I promised you later. Mark Brewster grinned as he clicked the button ending his call to his wife. He tossed the cell on top of his gloves on the seat next to him, then gunned the engine.

Don’t do this! An unseen, diminished guardian angel sat beside Mark on the leather interior of the bench seat of Mark’s Chevy work truck. Mark ripped his construction gloves up off the seat and threw them into the back. He wound up the volume of the truck’s FM radio, drowning any bouts of conscience that might thwart his well-laid plans.

Megan is rushing home now. She’ll be ready soon, he reasoned. Mark released a triumphant sound of disgust. She’ll follow my instructions to the letter, including the casual dress and sneakers. A wry sneer curled his lips. She has no idea how I can’t stand this, she’s no challenge. A pang of guilt stung his heart. He squelched it by extending his mind, trained only to meet his needs, to the other woman and what she could give him. Without realizing it himself, he transferred his loyalty to his mistress, Janice Mosley. Even though he was not making anything official until the next day, he was leading Megan into his trap. Another thought further lifted the corners of Mark’s mouth. I always get what I want. All he had to do was make Megan think it was her idea.

*****

Mark’s guardian angel sat back against the seat, acknowledging nothing he said would get through. In the spiritual realm, a dark veil stood between Mark and the angel, limiting his ability to work with his charge, causing the other angels to give him the name of Limited. When Megan had entered Mark’s life, Limited had access to Mark like he never had before. Since God’s word would not return to him void and Megan was full of light and God’s word, the angel fed on tiny morsels of the word that filtered from Megan, as well as from her family, into Mark. Limited devoured the morsels like any dying-of-hunger being would, building bits of strength when Mark would allow the word to filter into his essence. Yet even with Megan’s influence, something sinister dominated Mark.

Like leading a lamb to the slaughter. Mark’s contemptuous comment turned Limited’s attention to the porch of the cracker box house Megan and Mark shared.

Mark pulled into their circle drive and jumped out of the truck. Hi, babe. Gee, Meg, thanks for dressing up.

Megan furrowed her brow as she glanced at the T-shirt, jeans, and sweat jacket she wore.

Mark felt a stir of satisfaction at her reaction, noticing the desired effect of her self-loathing which he planted years ago and nurtured to keep Megan under his thumb.

What’s wrong with this? You said casual. She used a shaky voice as she examined her wardrobe. She lifted her foot for Mark’s approval. You said sneakers.

Yeah, she’s still the sap I’ve molded. Mark shook his head, about to get agitated, when he remembered he had a part to play. He intended to get some satisfaction out of the night and knew he wouldn’t if he were mad. He sent his wife a gaze one gives a mentally challenged person. One instant of remorse instead of satisfaction touched Mark’s heart when he saw the hurt on Megan’s face. He closed his eyes and shook it off. It’s fine, ready to go?

*****

As she followed Mark to his truck Megan reasoned the self-consciousness away, reassuring herself Mark’s intent was not meant to slam her. She wondered about the mix of emotions that danced across his face, especially the last. If she were identifying it she would have classed it as what? Dread? Remorse? Suspicion pushed aside Megan’s easygoing outer façade. She took a calming breath and reassured herself there was no reason for her fear.

Mark opened the door to her side of the pickup, refocusing Megan’s thoughts. Your chariot awaits m’lady. Mark bowed his head while sweeping his hand in a motion intended to direct Megan into the vehicle.

Megan’s heart warmed. She giggled at Mark’s Cockney rendition of an English accent. I love this playful side of you, Mark. She touched the side of his face with the tips of her fingers and climbed into the cab of his truck.

Mark flinched at her gentle touch as if it burned. He lowered his eyes to the gravel under his feet and then seemed to push the moment of humility aside. He closed her door and rounded the truck to the driver’s side.

Unease inched its way across Megan. She watched Mark drive them past the green of the Oklahoma countryside. Their suburban home faded into the background while Mark veered the truck, eastbound on Old Route 66, onto a country road. Wanting to make Mark happy and not wanting to revisit the same old argument about how Mark never took her needs or desires into consideration, she did her best to stow away the dread creeping its way up her spine.

For the past year or so, they hadn’t been getting along. He always insisted on doing things dishonestly where she insisted on living righteously. She felt deceived by him at every turn yet she always made an excuse that gave Mark the benefit of the doubt. After all, he was her husband; it was her duty as a good Christian wife to live