Possessions of the human kind is not solely of the mind but of your very soul-a soul can be sentenced, either to heaven or hell…there is no in between.
What you must also know, prior to reading this book, is this: the very things that haunt and torment the characters in this story are capable of overtaking or possessing you. This is possible, if you do not have Jesus Christ in your heart. It is a possession…a possession of the human kind.
Some of this story is based on actual demonic sightings: either from myself, or family members, who have given me sole permission to use them at my discretion.
It’s November in Humanity Ville and the sun has not peeked its warm embrace for years. For those living in this wishful, up and coming town think nothing’s peculiar nor the fact not a single soul has graced or moved to that area for years…until now.
A stranger heads up the immaculately paved Main Street of Humanity Ville in her heels and long, flowing dress set. An interview is set at the “Hope Psychiatric Facility” in the heart of town where men, women, and children veer from due to its ashen and ominous appearance regardless of its name.
The nostalgic town is well-built with hand crafted, wooden walkways sprawling throughout the town with coordinating buildings. Awnings made of light oak shade the walkways and stores giving a friendly feel to the town at first glance. Everything flows with pristine craftsmanship, as if set back in the 1800’s. There is a Barber shop, and High school lining Main Street inclusive with many stores, homes, spacious country, and tall trees which almost reach to the heavens. An unwelcomed addition decades ago, includes an abandoned building, chilling rumors say it is haunted. No one dares to find out if it’s merely gossip by bored town folk or if those same rumors bear any sustenance. The town is laid out as “up and coming” however, with the amount of people that reside in Humanity Ville, it remains primitive at best.
A palpable feeling lingers that no matter how lovely the town appears, what concerns citizens just may be unseen possibly underlying, beneath the troubling surface.
Shivering, the woman continues up the slippery paved road leading towards a hill, passing the unfriendly spectators wondering why this stunning, blonde haired and green eyed woman carrying a suitcase wants to trek near the very facility they avoid as a plague.
Some think they should warn her and say, “Turn back now!” But, they’re quiet all the same as is customary with the citizens of Humanity Ville.
There’s an unexpected chilly rainfall pelting onto the woman. She scurries onto the wooden, walkway under the awning of the nearest corner store dragging her heavy suitcase behind her flight. The fog slowly thickens through the streets. Those standing around suspiciously glare at her then back away keeping a safe distance.
Smiling, she touches up the pink lipstick on her full lips, with her pinky finger. “Hello.” She says in a welcoming tone, sweeping the droplets of rain off her forehead. She’s unaware of the trail of mascara dripping down her cheeks. Yet her kindness they merely toss aside like a shattered piece of glass by a window of silence. This puzzles the woman. She remains under shelter from the storm. She squeezes the water from her purple dress now sticking to each leg like a Band-Aid. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she looks at the time, on her now broken wristwatch, and realizes she may be tardy to this interview. No matter how the weather conditions are, she must be on time. Hesitantly, with a deep breath she sighs, and heads back into the rain, as the thunder claps and lightning flashes. A peculiar fog copiously swells throughout the streets obstructing the woman’s view. She glances around searching, but cannot seem to spot the facility. She thinks of an excuse to explain her tardiness. The truth is best.
The rain continues beating down upon the stranger chilling her while she prays under her breath. Oddly enough, the rain suddenly subsides. Eerie.
An old man in a red plaid shirt, hobbling with a wooden cane, travels toward the barber shop panics when the young woman smiles widely at him.
In a kind, gentle tone she asks. “Excuse me, sir? Do you know how to get to the Hope Psychiatric Facility? I’m running a bit…”
It stuns the old man who glares at the woman wide eyed then expeditiously enters the establishment. He hectically motions to what seems to be the only barber inside. He’s African-American and a little skittish especially of white folks. The barber angrily eyes the newcomer through the plate glass window then steps outside, his nice loafers clack on the walkway. He sports a cane and waves his ten inch sheers on the curbside corner of the street.
“Now you get on outa here, lady! This is a town that stays to themselves and this man he uh he aint’ done NOTHIN’ y’ here? Nothin’! You aint’ welcome here so get on outa here y’ here? OUT! All he want is a doggon’ haircut!” He bellows.
Storming back into the barber shop, he calms the old man down as the woman remains clueless in the street and furrows her brow perplexed, confused, her mouth gaping. The sudden outburst draws a small crowd of onlookers, mostly those who own businesses nearby. They eyeball one another gasping and whispering, “Just another trouble maker.”
It bewilders the woman not knowing what to do or say except smile at the lingering children curiously watching. She rubs her arms hoping she’s not far from the facility where she can warm the chill.
As the crowds quickly disperse, all except a little boy withdraws from his mother. He scamps off the walkway into the desolate street and gives a hardy tug on the stranger’s wet dress. She eyes the small child at her feet, who oddly points his tiny forefinger up the road, then dashes back to his mother’s side. Jerking his arm correctively, his mother stammers off abnormally staring at the tempestuous sky.
Squinting her beautiful, green eyes through the mist and glaze, there lays the ominous facility up the road over a small hill. Peculiarly, the facility maintains the appearance of a medieval castle, without proper security to the parking lot. It’s as if the facility overlooks the entire town below.
Speeding up the pace, her suitcase flings open tossing her clothes and books all over the wet road. Huffing, she collects her belongings squeezing out the water thinking, This is going to be a very long day.
Gathering her thoughts, she pops her suitcase closed then drags her body and drenched suitcase up the hill. A car slowly drives by, the driver abnormally eyes her. The woman smiles and waves without reciprocation. Her attention is drawn back to the facility sensing something terribly amiss, including the gargoyles meticulously ingrained into the grey stone. Why anyone would place those on the outside of a psychiatric facility is beyond her. Okay, Lord. This is where You instructed me to come. She takes a deep breath. Let’s go.
The woman heads through the double doors of the building with confidence and preparation. The hair on her arms stand erect as if static electricity is near, but it’s an underlying evil she’s swift to pick up on. That is precisely when her skin senses an icy chill crawl across her forearms then scamper across her entire body like little spiders.
“I apologize once again for my appearance. I found myself caught in the rainstorm, on the way here. And my suitcase flung open everywhere…anyways, I’m terribly sorry. I also need to find a hotel in town or some sort of suitable lodgings,” The woman speedily explains as she interviews for the doctor’s position in Dr. Claire Parkerson’s office, the Head of Psychiatrics. Wiping her wet cheeks, she smears the mascara further under her eyes, while attempting to make herself presentable once again.
“Oh, honey, now don’t you worry,” The older woman remarks opening her desk drawer. She whips out a handkerchief in the air like a bull fighter, and politely hands it to the young woman. Eccentric.
“Thank you,” The woman sweetly accepts and wipes her face from the make-up and residue of rain.
“Now, my name of course is Dr. Claire Parkerson. Call me Claire anytime that we are not in the workplace or we’re alone. In front of the other doctors and colleagues, and naturally in the presence of the patients, I ask you call me Dr. Parkerson. Now your name again is…oh, let me see…” Claire says rifling through a stack of paperwork on the corner of her desk. “Dr. Leslie Johnson.” Claire says and finally motions to a chair.
As Leslie sits viewing the older woman’s doctorate hanging behind her on the wall, in a thick, golden frame, Dr. Parkerson continues as Leslie politely interjects.
“I’m sorry. It was you I spoke with on the phone, correct? Or was it another…?”
“No, it was me. I apologize it’s been a rough week so far. Since our other doctor resigned unexpectedly it has left me to fill the gaps of what will soon be your patients. So forgive me. Today I’m just not up to my game. Now, we didn’t discuss housing here, but first let me make sure you are a licensed psychiatrist, are you not?” She folds her hands on her mahogany desk smiling anxiously waiting for a response. The office is roomy and pleasant with several Cherry wood shelves adjacent to a small seating area. It smells of fresh coffee and Dr. Parkerson’s pleasant, Imari perfume.
“Yes, Dr. Parkerson…uh, Claire.”
“Fine…fine, and where did you earn your doctorate?” She intensely questions in her flannel skirt and old fashion, beige blouse while fixing the bee hive shaped bun of grey hair upon her head. Taking a pencil out from inside her bun, she scribbles down some notes. Dr. Parkerson squints her wrinkly eyes, unaware of the red lipstick smear on her front teeth.
Leslie clears her throat holding back the laughter she nearly belts, yet remains professional remembering her own appearance. “Oxford. Then shortly thereafter, I returned to Massachusetts.”
“Ah, yes, that’s fine. I did receive a fax from the hospital you previously worked on Friday, so that I had all of your paperwork prepared by Monday morning. I see that you’ve been practicing for around ten years, give or take. Let’s cut to the chase.” The business savvy woman places her pencil down and politely folds her age spotted hands. “I have read your resume and you have a letter of recommendation, from one of the top schools in the country, who had nothing but wonderful things to say about you. Graduated the top of your class. In point of fact, your last position, they offered you a raise when you mentioned your departure. Apparently, they didn’t want you to leave. Seems you were a valuable asset at the hospital. Nevertheless, all seemed saddened to see you go. And their loss is our gain. I also see that for years while you were an active psychiatrist you took over many duties of the Head of Psychiatry at the hospital. Tell me more about that,” She scoops up the pencil and taps it on the desk.
A little nervy, Leslie remembers to sit up straight, maintain eye contact, and be confident. “Uh, yes, well, after receiving my doctorate, I had only been practicing for five years at that time. Sadly, my mentor became ill so he asked me to handle many of his duties. I was overseeing all the doctors on staff as well as overseeing a long list of patients. I believe at that time, it was a bit of a test.”
Claire’s eyes widen with intrigue as she makes a tepee with her fingers. “I see. Well, you could very well take over my job,” Claire drolly states with a slight chuckle. “Well, I won’t waste anymore of your time here today. We want you for this job,” Claire happily flips and closes the flap of the folder, and pleasantly gleams with her pale, blue eyes.
“Oh!” Leslie gasps. “Thank you. That’s terrific news.” She brushes the wet hair off of her shoulders, and tucks the loose strands behind her ears.
“So here is a pamphlet on our facility in case you’d like to know the history of it etcetera. Most like to read of our hideous gargoyles outside and the history behind those.”
Leslie clears her chalky throat. “Ah, yes. They’re a little startling at first glance, I must admit.”
“Well, it is all there for you to enjoy. This hospital has been in this town, for many years. You’d be surprised the things that lurk.”
Leslie furrows her brow wondering just what she means by that remark.
“And this rather compact folder I have just placed before you, I must have filled out no later than this coming Friday. That way the billing department will have no troubles AND so they don’t ring my office all month wondering who Dr. Johnson is,” Claire giggles grabbing a stack of charts in hand preparing to hand over the load-and surely a thrill to do so it seems.
“Now, since I’m just going to throw you into work, in a couple days, and use that wonderful brain of yours, I suggest I show you your downstairs living arrangements. You can freshen up and let’s see…” Claire glances at the conservative, gold watch round her wrist. “It’s running around one so, meet me back here around four and I will show you the rest of the facility. It is of course, minimum security.”
Leslie stands to her exhausted feet and follows the mid sixty-year-old woman out of her office, hastily keeping up with her fast and unexpected pace. Leslie struggles to carry her heavy, soaked suitcase.
“Claire, that is a load off of my mind. I wasn’t aware of any living arrangements provided here. Uh, inside the facility,” She lugs her suitcase down the long, dreary corridors waiting for someone to politely assist her. “It seems a little unorthodox-”
“Oh, yes. Almost all the doctors here have quarters downstairs. It is a tad unorthodox, but it is a lot more convenient that way, and it is how the facility was built. Why leave the basement vacant with all those lovely living spaces? Now, stay close because I have a full load on my plate,” She wiggles her index finger beckoning her to keep up. “This floor is the first floor. It is where all of our doctor’s offices are…for safety reasons the cafeteria we use is at the end of the hall back there behind those double doors. There are also a few session rooms on this floor as well. Double doors to the parking lot must be unlocked by security, with a button at their stations, or simply slide your I.D. card, which you’ll receive. That way, no patients may flee the facility. Follow me.”
Claire hustles in her unfashionable, inch high, taupe heels clarifying to Leslie, with an elderly yet flinty voice. They head for the elevator, passed a vacant security booth.
“Terrific. Graduated from Harvard, doctorate at Oxford.” Claire’s proudly repeats aloud hoping other doctors will hear her praising muse. “Now, uh hem, doctors get a key to their apartments, and a keycard will work for your office and for lock down.”
“Lock down? Sounds so extreme,” Leslie gasps while sweat slips off the sides of her ivory temples.
“Yes. Weren’t you aware of lock down at the hospital you worked?”
“Yes, Dr. Parkerson. Uh, but we never had a need for it. Things were extremely secured plus, it was maximum security.”
Nodding her head, Claire firmly crosses her arms and faces Leslie. “Well, here is a bit different you will find. A lot of times, lock down is…let’s just say it’s needed. Now, seeing as you are fresh off the farm so to speak, see this grey keyhole here by the elevators?” Claire points her wrinkly fingers at a small pad on the wall with a slot in center, almost resembling a credit card machine. “You slide your staff card in it and turn if there is an emergency with a patient or anything you feel that may be a safety breach. Or you can have security do it. It locks the facility down by initiating the bar sequence which covers every patient room, bathrooms, offices, and cafeterias. There are two cafeterias, of course the patients eat in one and doctors in another again, for safety reasons. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. Yet we do have break rooms on every floor for the staff. Come dear, come.”
Claire hurriedly waves her arm beckoning a very jittery, new doctor. Leslie senses something following directly behind her. It creeps up closer and closer. Now, within an inch of her body. Breathing near her hair and whispering in her ear. The presence is tangible. Her cold, wet dress isn’t helping in terms of getting icy chills. Swinging around, she sees no one then steps into the elevator just as the doors slide close.
“There are five floors. Floor one as I previously mentioned, offices and a small area for new arrivals or I should say ‘observation’ where we observe the new patients admitted to see what sort of therapy is required. Floor two through four is patient rooms, recreational room with games and televisions on each of the patients’ floors, bathrooms etc. and the fifth floor is for some of our,” She pauses. “most colorful patients which I believe you will be spending most of your time. It’s also for treatment such as padded rooms and well, you’ll see more once you get your feet wet,” She’ll soon find out alright. Claire’s thoughts drift for a brief moment.
“Treatment? I was under the impression the entire psychiatric hospital is a treatment hospital?”
“Of course, but treatment to patients who may harm themselves or others it usually and must always consist of isolation or things of that nature. Electro-shock of the patients is not practiced here in any way, shape or form. It’s all in your folder. Passed the papers you need to fill out explains everything. Now basement level is housing courters as I have mentioned,” Claire says pushing ‘B’ on the elevator. “Salary is six figures a year. I’d say that should help you pay your financial aid for Harvard and Oxford.”
“Actually, uh, Claire, I was blessed to receive a full scholarship,” Leslie politely clears her throat not tooting her own horn, but being forthright as the elevator begins its decent.
Claire nods her head and raises a single brow obviously impressed by the younger recruit. “I knew there was a reason I liked you. Ah, here we are,” The elevator dings stopping on the basement level. “This way you can stop pulling that heavy suitcase of yours. I apologize, I’d happily assist you, but bad back,” She motions to her lower back.
With a grin from Leslie, the elevator doors slowly and strangely crease several inches, then opens. Again, she perceives a strange weight and similar presence shadowing her. Claire escorts Leslie to the end of the hall, passing several apartment doors. The corridor is long and leads in several directions. They turn left and come to the last door on the right numbered 666 alarming Leslie. Especially with police issued yellow crime scene tape drapes the threshold. It noticeably grates on the older doctor.
“Dang it!” Claire angrily grunts reaching for her radio inside her outdated skirt pocket. With white knuckles, she grips the radio.
“Tony, dang it! I told you to get rid of the tape!” Her voice spirals. “Now get down here and remove it before I have you written up!” Grating her teeth, she isn’t a patient woman, Leslie picks up on it.
“Copy that, Dr. Parkerson. I’m sorry, I just got in…my son is in the hospital…” A young man’s voice blares on the other end. His explanation heats Claire, her face turning red. She doesn’t permit mistakes in her facility- nor leaves room for them. Passing the buck when it suits her or she’s at fault, is a disdaining and well-known trait.
“Okay, alright, Tony, it’s fine. Just come and do it now, please! If you have a moment to spare?” She takes a deep breath cooling off and brushing away the anger.
“Right away, Dr. Parkerson!”
“Excuse all of this Leslie, and forgive the tape. It’s a long story,” Claire uneasily pardons. “That was Tony, part of the security which is located at the entrance of every floor. I don’t think anyone was sitting there when we headed down, come to think of it. Uh, single men with children,” She murmurs. “This is where you will be staying, so I hope it doesn’t sit badly with you. It should be quite suitable,” Claire huffs as she rips the tape to the floor. “Let him pick this up,” She disdainfully treads over the tape while unlocking the door.
“Honestly, I have nowhere else to stay, Claire. Nothing a nice prayer can’t cure.” She shrugs her head not concerned.
“Ah, into prayers huh? So many times a day as the Muslims?”
“Not exactly.” Leslie grins.
Claire nods her head and gingerly opens the door and motions for Leslie to enter. Carefully, Leslie takes a few steps inside, Claire flicks on the lights. Leslie takes a deep breath of relief while glaring around. There are no windows being a basement, however, it’s rather spacious. Just a bit musty more than likely due to little or no use.
“Oh my…it’s just lovely. It comes fully furnished?”
“Yes, well, the last tenant had a fondness for the color purple, but I think it adds a nice touch down here. Don’t you think? Perfect space for one or two people. I gather you like the color. Your lavender dress seems to match. Almost like you are meant to be here. That’s what my cynical mind thinks anyway. You have a kitchen, living and bedroom area. Very nice.”
“Yes. Oh yes, just wonderful,” Leslie says in astonishment at her new surroundings. Finally with a thrill, she drops the suitcase to the floor, it clunks.
Claire’s complete attention is drawn to the noise. “My lord! Seems as if you brought a few bricks in there?” She leans over giving a hefty pat to the wet suitcase. “Sounds a bit water logged.”
Leslie chortles. “Yes. Well, no bricks but a great deal of books. I tried shoving all of my clothes and shoes into one suitcase. Which accounts for its bulbous size.”
Without so much as a laugh, Claire clears her throat. “Yes, I’ll leave you to get acquainted, with your new home. Ah, don’t forget our four o’clock. Oh, and um, in the master bedroom there are a quite a few, well, a closet full actually…of new outfits practically unworn. Many of them with the tags still on them. You are a size four, right?” She snobbishly shakes her wet hand at the wrist.
Leslie appears surprised. “Uh, yes, I am…but how did you know?”
“The clothes are all size four. I wasn’t always a doctor. And not everyone could receive a full scholarship,” She responds with some lingering disdain. “Worked every day I was not in class until my graduation then doctorate etcetera,” With a click of her tongue, she subtly winks. “See you at four, Dr. Johnson. And don’t be late.” She emphasizes again, with a sly yet firm grin.
Claire places the keys in Leslie’s hand, pauses peculiarly then with shaky fingers, finally releases the keys and closes the door behind her rather eccentric exit. Leslie locks the dead bolt bemused chalking up her new boss’s unsettling behavior to old age. She kicks off her heels settling back into the soft, lavender sofa thanking the Lord for all of His provisions.
Unpacking, she hangs up her soaked clothes and sprawls out her wet books across the floor, from the earlier storm, when an envelope slides underneath the front door. Leslie curiously opens it. It reads,
Dr. Johnson, let me know if you need anything. While you are employed here you have use of one of the company cars in the lot space marked by your apartment number. Keys in the envelope. We have terrific funding. Also enclosed is a hundred dollars for you to get yourself some groceries. Sincerely, Dr. Claire Parkerson.
Leslie rejoices washing her face and applies fresh make-up. She throws on a new dress from the closet to warm her body, it certainly fits. She blow dries her hair just in time to run to the store for a few things, and return for orientation with Dr. Claire Parkerson.
In town, Leslie’s excited by her new job, she comes to grips with something peculiar. A strange, dark cloud ominously nestles over the facility spiraling in the opposing direction of the wind. It is a sight she has never witnessed. A familiar icy chill scatters along her spine.
Still, she parks the grey car alongside the curb near the corner store she had taken refuge by earlier that day.
The jingle on the door draws attention to Leslie’s entrance. The only two workers in the cozy, but unconventional “mom and pop” store are mystified at the stranger. Straight faces, they eye her. She picks up a grocery basket and decisively plucks groceries and toiletries from the shelves gladly filling her basket.
Looking over shoulder, Leslie shudders as the security camera abnormally trails her through the store making her feelings of discomfort unavoidable. The lump in her throat makes it difficult to swallow. Quickly, she completes her shopping and steps into the empty, unfriendly checkout aisle. The store clerk efficiently and swiftly begins ringing her up completely averting her eyes. Leslie’s wide smile is an attempt to break the proverbial ice.
“Hi,” The woman purposefully ignores the newcomer, her head wilting. “Do you have bad weather often? I haven’t seen a storm as this morning in years!” Again, no response from the check-out woman. Leslie senses that everyone in this town is unfriendly. But why?
The store clerk continues robotically ringing up each item. Then the total chimes, as the other employee standing nearby meticulously bags Leslie’s items. As Humanity Ville’s two friendliest employees complete their jobs, one of the women finally speaks up just as Leslie heads for the exit.
“Satan dwells where there is hope.”
The paper bags nearly loosen from Leslie’s arms, she awkwardly turns from the exit doors, and peculiarly raises an eyebrow at the woman, with the drab tone of voice.
“Excuse me?” Her green eyes widen.
“I said, Satan dwells where there is hope. There is no hope where Satan dwells. In this small town, people are dead as a doornail. You know, stiff as the wood this place is built upon,” She knocks a fist on the checkout counter. “Feel it?”
Leslie frowns. “But, then…”
“But, then why work in a place where Satan dwells?”
“Because it’s what God has called me to do. It’s my calling,” Leslie sharply answers as the employees’ eyes broaden they go about their business like before. Confusion unsettles and clouds her by the utterly bizarre encounter, Leslie rushes out the store.
The barber nearby rests on a polished, wooden bench out front, scrupulously shooting daggers at Leslie. She loads the groceries into the back seat of her car while glancing in the barber’s direction. Lewd curses spew from his lips accompanied by a violently wave of his hand, as if to say get out of here. She swiftly gets into the car and drives back to the facility.
Later, at the four o’clock meeting with Dr. Claire Parkerson, Leslie can’t help but probe the older psychiatrist in the hallway of the facility. Many peculiar behaviors haunt her mind. “May I ask you something, Dr. Parkerson?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“How long have you lived in this town?”
“All my life,” She proudly states in her white doctor’s coat.
“Is there something…wrong with the people in this town?”
Claire clears her throat with her fist up to her mouth, there’s a lack of surprise by the question.
“Ah, you must have bumped into Barber Joe, as we call him. Don’t worry, he curses at everyone. And his specialty is men’s hair. Don’t go in there and ask him to cut your blonde hair, honey. You’ll depart with a crew cut if you’re not careful. And he’ll use those giant scissors he likes to swing at everyone.”
Dr. Parkerson passively waves her arm, as another doctor approaches with paperwork to read over and sign.
The halls are plastered in mauve on the doctors’ floor which some don’t care for, but as soon as they head up to the second floor, they’re entombed with ashen walls and cold, dull lighting. Patients aimlessly wander the halls. For some it seem the drugs consume them where they can merely lean against the walls. They can barely focus upon them, with dilated, glassy eyes. Half a dozen orderlies stand guard over the patients while some in the recreational room play cards. The T.V. either blares a game show or soap opera. Some patients can’t contain themselves and crowd the T.V. shouting the answers or discussing, to imaginary people, what may occur on their favorite soap. Many others merely talk to themselves or to fictitious people. Despair grips Leslie’s heart as an icy chill, but this is something so common to Dr. Leslie Johnson.
“Is it always this dark and gloomy in here?”
It disturbs Dr. Johnson in her spirit, with a heavy and uneasy sensation rumbling in the pit of her stomach. Something is indeed underlying, but she can’t quite place her finger on it. She’s especially cognizant of the patients, bypassing them with caution nor stepping on those sprawling out on the white, tiled floor. Again, she senses a cold chill in the air circling her as she saunters. It hovers. Chills prick Leslie’s arm yet she brushes it off to nerves.
“Yes. We feel that the color in here is not confusing for the patients. I recall this one particular patient…” Dr. Parkerson approaches Leslie giggling and reminiscing while buttoning up her white doctor’s coat. She looks off focusing upon a wall. “Ahem…when this facility was first built the walls were this odd red,” She glares back into Leslie’s questioning, green eyes. “And not just red but a bright, apple red, you know? I have no idea why one would paint the walls that hideous color. I was not Head of Psychiatry at that time. Just a regular doctor as you, in the middle of a session, when my patient started eyeing the walls. Then he began to scream, ‘The walls are bleeding! The walls are bleeding!’” She grips her collar recalling the event as if fresh.
“Oh, good grief!” Dr. Leslie Johnson comments, her green eyes bulge with that strange chill now blowing directly in front of her face. She squints and glances for an air conditioning vent, but it’s nowhere near where they stand.
“Yes, needless to say, he got up, and rammed his head into the wall. I hit the panic button, which you’ll find underneath your desk and session room tables. The next day painters came in. The walls have been this color ever since,” Dr. Parkerson explains quickly rumbling her words sounding jittery and hopped up on caffeine. “I imagine something about that particular color brought a flashback or repressive memory of some sort into his mind. I can only guess, with certain patients.”
Just then, there’s a tender touch to Dr. Johnson’s shoulder, she turns to face a middle-aged man appearing drained with exhaustion-more than likely due to his medication. The patient has his hands limp warping strangely to his chin.
“Excuse me? Doctor? Where are my eyes?” His soft voice seems innocent enough, however in this profession one cannot lower their guard for a single moment.
Dr. Johnson’s body quivers at the question when a sudden peace rushes over her. An orderly quickly maneuvers toward the patient, as she kindly takes hold of the patient’s hands. She gently directs them onto his face.
“Move your fingers up now,” Her tone is warming. The man slowly moves his fingertips up his face, passed his mouth, and the bridge of his nose until he feels the lids of his eyes. His bottom lip quivers. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, as if he’s touching them for the first time. It’s obvious he is harmless.
“Oh. Thank you doctor!” The man stammers away aloof. The orderly gives a pleasant nod at the new doctor then spins around to the patients.
“Very well done, Dr. Johnson. He likes you. I’m quite stunned, he never allows anyone to touch his hands or eyes, for that matter, without a violent encounter. Had some serious injury to his eyes when he was a child. His parents were drug addicts and quite high well, one night they tried to poke out his eyes, with a flathead screwdriver. Only scratched the surface of his pupils when luckily a neighbor nearby heard his screams and broke through the door. He was rescued. And was blind for three days then fully recovered. Unfortunately, he has never been able to get over it. He is extremely paranoid and hallucinates as if it is reoccurring all over again.”
Placing her hands on her chest, Dr. Johnson is heartbroken for the young man. “I would be as well. I can’t imagine being anything less than that. My heart goes out to him. Whose patient is he?” She speculates rubbing her icy forearms.
“Don’t worry about that. He is well cared for. If I were you, I’d worry about the patients I am about to give you because you will have your hands full with them. Now, Dr. Johnson, they aren’t allowed to have any sharp objects other than pens and pencils, for patients who are not suicidal, sadistic, violent or self-cutters. I suggest you keep a close watch on your patients…especially YOUR list,” She amuses herself by her droll comment then nonchalantly clears her dry throat. “I’ll give you three to start and see how you do and then give you more. I realize you’re a practicing Psychiatrist however I do that with every new doctor I hire. Nothing personal whatsoever.”
Dr. Parkerson slowly leads her new, shaky employee through the long, peculiar corridors of the dreary facility. She introduces Dr. Johnson to every doctor who passes. She’s particularly proud with Dr. Johnson at her side filling everyone in on her prized education.
“Each room is enclosed by a thick metal door with a single viewing window and a tray slot to place their food through. That is of course if a situation arises where they aren’t in the cafeteria to eat. This should appear similar to where you have worked for the last over ten years,” Claire looks over waiting for a response.
“Yes. Identical in fact. Only, if this is minimum security it is rather odd to have this-”
“Good,” Claire ignores her comment. “Then I won’t have to worry about you. No real windows to the outside world, from their rooms. That only leads to chaos. And we have learned in the past, that barring the windows in the facility, which they are….well….just doesn’t do anything. If a person really wants to get out…well, they will!”
“What do you mean if a person really wants to get out they will? Has someone actually jumped out of the…?”
“Uh…next floor is alike and the fourth as well. This is minimum security so the only barred gate is up front where the security officers stand post except for the first floor. Now, let’s see,” She taps the sides of her cheek with her index finger. “Patients who are well adjusted are allowed into the courtyard to socialize or play basketball. Most just enjoy the fresh air. There is also a recreation room with some games and a television which you’ve seen. And there’s lovely windows in there which they can glare out of. Men and women are separated time wise in the courtyard,” Dr. Parkerson interrupts Dr. Johnson who wants to question her further yet keeps silent and only swallows another hard lump in her throat.
“Now, pay close attention to the fifth floor, because if you do not enter your employee serial number correctly, you will not be able to get in. And the security guards are not allowed to let you in. However, they can let you out if you are already inside of course.” The women step into the rickety elevator then shoot up to the 5th floor. “Ah, here we are.”
The elevator dings, the doors swing, open and the women step off the elevator into a darkly lit unit. They head toward a security booth encumbered by thick metal bars. Screams echo throughout startling Dr. Johnson as the fluorescent lights above flicker on and off in a strange, repeating pattern triggering an alarming ache deep in her stomach. Gravely bothering her, she takes in a deep breath while Dr. Parkerson’s conscience seems to be seared with a hot iron. It’s as if she’s unbothered, unshaken, and oddly accustomed to mentally unsound patients’ rants.
“Ah this must be the new doc? Pleasure to meet you, my name is Jacky Rite,” The security officer in his booth introduces himself holding out his hand through the metal bars to the pretty, new doctor.
“Oh, sweaty palms?” He grips Dr. Johnson’s hand. “This one’s a keeper, Dr. Parkerson,” He jests.
“Yes, yes, Jacky. Serial number is in your packet, Dr. Johnson. Now let me enter mine and we will continue.”
Dr. Parkerson inconsiderately brushes off whom she views as the obnoxious guard, and keys in her code into a thick, grey pad on the wall of the security booth. A loud buzz, the main gate activates and slides open.
“Now keep in mind, patients will inflict injury to themselves or to others, take off their clothes, speak to themselves and many other abnormal things which is why they are up here. Separating them from the other patients who are improving is beneficial.”
Dr. Johnson pauses listening to Dr. Parkerson then draws her attention back to Jacky. “Pleased to meet you, Jacky. Do the lights always flicker like this?”
“Oh, yes ma’am.” Jacky rubs his paunchy belly while easing back into his booth chair. “You really get used to it if you ask me. I’ve been here for years and doesn’t really bother me now. But, that first couple months was a-”
“Jacky!” Dr. Parkerson huffs almost with a growl. “Dr. Johnson is new and I’m sure she will see you again. Every day I’m certain. So! You can give her your chilling tales later, hmmm?” She sarcastically states using slight animation to the curly hair, tall yet chubby guard.
Jacky Rite has been in Humanity Ville for years now. The only job worth his interest and salt is as a security officer, which is what he sincerely loves to do. With no siblings, alive, he devotes his time to his job with a loving and pregnant wife, who adores his quick witted humor, dimples, curly brown hair, and paunchy belly. Many officers’ say “it comes with the job”.
“Ah, that’s code talk around here to shut my pie hole. HA! I get it. Don’t worry, Dr. Johnson. You come and see me and we’ll talk,” Jacky smiles as his cherry pit dimples cutely surface. He knows full well, he’s gouging himself underneath Dr. Parkerson’s frail skin.
“I will. That’s a promise. Thank you. Pleasure again,” She bids as she continues alongside Dr. Parkerson on this eccentric hospital tour.
“Now, the reason I wanted you to see this unit is because you have a couple of patients in here. Actually, I’ll be frank. All three are in here. Okay, up to room six we have Leroy. African American approximately seventeen years of age. His family was killed by well there’s no other way to say it…racists. They thought it be fit to drag them all in the middle of the street at three o’clock in the morning and burn his parents to death. Rumors of course. Police have yet to find the culprits I’m afraid. I was told Leroy was left to watch them burn alive. At the tender age of seven was placed in a foster home until he started playing with matches, and talking to himself or imaginary friends. Fearing he was succumbing as a pyromaniac, foster parents sent him to therapy. It was highly recommended to have him committed, before he could inflict injury to anyone or even himself. He suffers from severe depression, outbursts of wrath, violence along with grief and anxiety. Possible borderline personality disorder is the latest diagnosis from his previous doctor. I also believe schizophrenia as well. Very sad for Leroy Foster.”
“Is he currently on any medication?” Dr. Johnson glares through the viewing window and clicks the top of her pen. She jots all she observes of the patient on a spiral notepad.
“Yes, some. He is on medication for depression, but on the exceeded amount. He is on sedatives for sleep. I also agree with the diagnosis that he is schizophrenic so, we have him on the proper dose of medication for that. Right here,” She points at some papers in his chart as Dr. Johnson investigates it thoroughly. “Because it seems to work best for him,” Dr. Parkerson scratches her boney fingers through her puffy salt and pepper hair anxious to move on.
“I see. So, why is he then in this part of the hospital and in a straightjacket?”
Dr. Johnson again glances at Leroy lying in the center of a heavily padded room glaring like a zombie at the ceiling. The wide nosed teen appears miserable. He proceeds to roll back and forth crazily, like a beetle on its back complete dissociative behavior. His hair has grown into puffy ball since he refuses haircuts.
“Well, since he views all white people as members of the KKK, it’s safest to have him remain in these quarters. Not to mention last Friday, after our phone conversation, he snuck a match into our session and attempted to light my desk on fire. He apparently thought it was amusing and was eccentrically chuckling. I still haven’t found where he was able to get that matchbook.”
“My goodness!” Dr. Johnson clears her throat. “I will review his file carefully and see if there is any new therapy we can provide for him. At least, if anything he should be getting a good night sleep. I think that will improve his mood. Has he been shown any sort of stress relievers to deal with his apparent grief?”
“No. I didn’t see the need for it. But, he is your patient now,” Without concern or a care at the state of the teen, Dr. Parkerson passively waves her arm.
“I understand. How is he being monitored?” Dr. Johnson tucks her shiny, blonde hair behind her ears.
“Well, you see the cameras in there?” Dr. Parkerson proudly points to the corner of the depressing room. “WE have every patient in this unit under twenty-four-hour surveillance, for their own protection and ours, Dr. Johnson. By all means, do your homework and see if you can help him. I want you to be completely candid with me, especially about this patient. But, be cautious to the fact that he is violent and clever for his age. If you need anything or have questions, you and all my staff are welcome to see me anytime.”
“Sounds wonderful, Dr. Parkerson,” She seems awfully concerned about him all of the sudden.
“Okay, on with your patient list,” She hands over another chart to the new recruit. “Um, room ten.”
The women quickly move on down the hall. Their chatter and footsteps draw the attention of other patients in their rooms. They bolt up and scurry to the window of their door. They scream and yell at the doctors. Dr. Johnson jolts although she has seen her fair share of this sort of behavior, something about this specific unit unease’s her. These patients seem….different. Particularly the look they have in their glossy eyes. It’s more than medication, but what?
Orderlies stammer to the patients’ rooms as screams and bellows continue resounding throughout the unit.
“This young lady I believe has a lot of potential. Her name is Rebecca White. Another seventeen-year-old. Bright, and smart, in fact a little too smart for her own good. She’s a pathological liar and prone to violent outbursts and mood swings. She is also said to be very popular with the boys if you know what I mean? Pregnant at the age of fifteen, Social Services took her baby in fear she would not be a good mother due to her mental state. Her mother is caring for the baby now. It’s a shame. She’s a pretty girl if she’d try a little harder. She needs some behavior modification. I do believe she has borderline personality disorders, but I haven’t spent much time with her.”
“And excuse me, Dr. Parkerson, what state has her previous doctor diagnosed?” Dr. Johnson senses the pain from the young brown eyed teen, as she quickly scans the patient chart. In hard to read penmanship, her previous doctor deemed her highly susceptible to hallucinations stating Rebecca White has difficulties deciphering between what is real and the lies she tells.
“She doesn’t sleep. She barely eats and acts out as a toddler would throwing temper tantrums. She throws things, bites, and kicks. I agree with her previous doctor that she needs behavior modification. These teens today,” Dr. Parkerson chuckles however Dr. Johnson doesn’t find it at all amusing. Dr. Parkerson picks up on Dr. Johnson’s stoic face as she continues. “Ahem, her mother vouched for that. In addition, the night she was admitted, she was screaming and fought so badly the orderlies had to strap her down to a bed. I sedated her. That is why I placed her here. She has been out of control ever since.”
“Well, I hope it’s not due to the fact that her baby was taken away and this is her only outlet,” Dr. Johnson passionately challenges the older, wiser, and more experienced doctor.
“Hmmm. Look into it, Dr. Johnson. Remember, these patients I’ve simply been overseeing. Since their regular doctor abruptly left, I’ve had one session with them. You are the key to their recovery. You’re their doctor now.”
Dr. Johnson nods moves with compassion while eying Rebecca stewing on a white linen bed staring at the TV, which all patients have bolted in the corner of their room wall. She’s fidgets and bites her nails to the nubs spitting each piece onto the floor. Seeing the guests through the glass, she quickly swings her legs off the bed, and scamps at the viewing window. She presses her forehead against the cold glass. The dark circles under her big brown eyes, are a clear sign of her lack of sleep. Dr. Johnson is certain she may have been cute with those brown eyes, before being admitted to the facility. Now, she has given up all hope uncaring in the things of hygiene such as: taking a shower, putting on make-up, or making herself presentable. Yet her thoughts are always for her son, no matter how miserable she is.
“Hi, Dr. Parkerson,” Rebecca keeps a warm tone.
“Rebecca and how are you today?” Dr. Parkerson asks.
“I am much better. Much, much better today. I don’t feel so down today. I’ve been doing those uh relaxation exercises to help me sleep…you know the ones you were telling me about last week? I’ve been sleeping much better now.”
“You have? Well, then that’s positive news. This is your new doctor. Dr. Johnson. She’s a smart woman who I think can help you, Rebecca,” Dr. Parkerson curls her lip slightly.
Dr. Parkerson moves away and signals for Jacky around the corner, as Rebecca slightly grins at Dr. Johnson. Dr. Parkerson lowers her tone as Jacky approaches, with his thumbs tucked in his belt.
“Watch out new doctor,” Rebecca whispers to Dr. Johnson.
“What do you mean?” Dr. Johnson questions raising a single brow.
“Not now. Soon!”
Dr. Johnson furrows her brow at the eccentric girl having a hunch. I wonder what she means? Perhaps she has something to say without Dr. Parkerson’s presence. Dr. Johnson thinks a moment.
“Has Rebecca slept this weekend at all?” Dr. Parkerson whispers.
“Uh, no, Dr. Parkerson, and I’ve been here all weekend. I’ve just come off the night shift.”
“Alright, I had a feeling. Thank you, Jacky. That’ll be all.”
“Yeah, no prob.” He says heading back to his security booth.
“Rebecca?” Dr. Parkerson approaches the window. “The officer on duty saw you this weekend. Honey, you didn’t sleep at all. Now, why don’t you tell me the truth and stop with all of these lies?”
Rebecca angrily grits her teeth. Feeling as if the walls are closing in, she begins violently smacking her head with the palms of her hands, her hair tousles through the air. Dr. Johnson’s eyes widen.
“I tried! I tried, I really tried, doctor. Please, just…just let me OUT OF HERE!”
The door bangs as she proceeds to kick it, with the balls of her bare feet. The doctor’s flinch, stepping back a few feet.
“Rebecca, do you want the boo-boo nurse to come in there?” Dr. Parkerson sternly wiggles her index finger in the air as a warning.
Rebecca immediately moves away from the door in fright. She plunks back on the bed and continues to do as she does every day, watch TV. and bite her fingernails nervously to the nubs. Hopeless. Downtrodden.
“Boo-boo nurse?” Dr. Johnson frowns peeking through the window a final time.
“I call him the boo-boo nurse. His name is Ted and in this unit if you hit the panic button or radio for him, he comes in to sedate the patient. He is one of our larger orderlies but also is a registered nurse, so he is able to administer shots. Head Orderly is his official title. He is great at helping throughout the hospital. I like him because his stature is very intimidating. Usually, the patient calms down when they know he is coming. I’ll have you meet him when I see him. Also, it’s good when you’re in a session to put on your white doctor’s coat. I had one made for you in your office hanging up. I want the patients to view us as a friend, a helper, and gain their trust so we can help them. Do you understand what I have just explained, Dr. Johnson?”
Dr. Johnson quickly skims over Rebecca’s chart. You’d have to be an idiot not to understand. Especially how she explains things, as if I’m a child.
“Absolutely, patients are the number one concern.”
“Exactly! And as you can see, Rebecca is a pathological liar. Do your homework on her as well. Now, follow me to the last of your patients. I saved the best for last. The cream of the crop so to speak,” Dr. Parkerson laughs shielding what she really wants to do, scream.
The clacking of their heels rings throughout the unit looming toward room number twelve. It’s a female patient who’s already expecting the doctors. And she’s waiting by the window of her room singing an uncanny song. Her breath fogs up the window near her craggy, pale mouth. Her breath seeps through the food vent. Putrid.
*Doctors put me in, Doctors put me out. Doctors put me in and I go crazy all about*
“Ah, Dr. Par-ker-son!”
The woman’s tone alarms the doctors; they simultaneously stop in their tracks. Hit with a draining surge of weakness scratching and dragging across her body peeling away at her energy, Dr. Johnson grows sluggish and dizzy upon stepping near the woman’s room. Her green eyes wobble like vertigo. Strange, distressing, and noticeable.
“Stay away from the window whatever you do, Leslie, alright?” Dr. Parkerson whispers obviously shaking by the greeting of the patient, while Dr. Johnson holds the wall with her palms. She breathes deeply in and out questioning what seems to be occurring, and why she’s sensing what she is.
“What do you…?” Dr. Johnson’s voice trails off.
“Ah, Olga, and how are we today?” Dr. Parkerson says in a cool tone keeping several feet from the viewing window.
Olga peers at them through the fog, her dead, mahogany eyes frightening. “WEeeeeee, I am fine, Dr. Parkerson. How are you? I see you have a new doctor to evaluate me,” Her voice is sinister, shrill with overlapping, disembodying voices not of her own. The old woman dawns a flowery gown to her knees and always has bare feet. Toenails appear as talons and pallid. Her teeth are crooked and a strange, deep set scar from her cheek bone to the corner of her lips on the right side is due to a childhood accident. Her silver hair is a puffy, stink infested ball of frizz. Most who gaze upon her detect an overpowering presence lingering. A sheer, malevolent presence. It cannot be overcome yet you’re physically drawn in by the elderly woman.
Olga oddly glares and mechanically tilts her head back and forth strangely between the doctors.
Dr. Johnson shivers as the goosebumps crawl up her arms drawing more attention from the abnormal patient. The new doctor nervously clears her throat as her heart drums loudly in her ears. Leslie gathers herself hoping the patient won’t notice how undone she’s become. Her eyes can’t seem to focus.
“Hi. I’m…I’m Dr. Johnson. Can you-can you tell me how long you’ve been in here?” Nausea hits, bile tickles her throat. She swallows.
Olga fixates her wide eyes upon the blonde woman who cringes inside. Olga touches the window pressing the glass with her roughhewn fingertips when suddenly shrills at the top of her lungs. Every wrinkle around her eyes, forehead, and mouth deeply crease changing the overall appearance of her face.
“Olga? Olga you must calm down. We can’t help you if you don’t STOP SCREAMIN!” She ignores Dr. Parkerson’s attempts and the screams grow louder resonating against the eerie walls of the unit. Dr. Johnson gathers a deep breath in her lungs when Dr. Parkerson finally takes notice to how strange her new doctor is reacting.
“Get control, doctor!” Dr. Parkerson correctively jerks Dr. Johnson’s arm.
“AH! AHHHHHHHHHH!” Olga continues bellowing.
The veins in her face bulge; it’s as if an eggshell is cracking. Finally, Olga is silent which is far more evil and quite unexpected. She hobbles ominously on one leg in a peculiar, robotic manner to the bed. Without notice, Olga places one foot before the other mechanically against the wall. They stick to it like a spider. She’s able to crawl up the side of the wall bending over on all fours. Her frail bones pop and crack out of place while she creeps up and down the walls and ceiling sticking to it as a bug. She screams and chants in an innate tone. Dr. Johnson is livid shaking her head in disbelief. Olga pushes off the wall, does a backwards somersault and lands onto the bed with her eyes fastening together. She’s breathing heavily and panting like a thirsty dog. With concern rising, Dr. Johnson reaches for the door regardless of the drainage she feels inside.
“DON’T YOU DARE!” Dr. Parkerson firmly snatches Dr. Johnson at wrist and jerks her in a state of panic. “You can’t unlock it without your I.D. tag. Stay back, Leslie! She displayed this behavior last week. When Jacky came to my aid he was nearly attacked!”
An insidious crease reveals Olga’s eyes remaining open darting at the viewing window. Madly, she smiles as stinky saliva trickles down the sides of her mouth onto her pillow. She giggles.
“Let’s leave her alone,” Dr. Parkerson states having seen enough of this patient for the day.
“Shouldn’t we sedate her, Dr. Parkerson?”
“She already is, doctor. Sometimes it is successful and sometimes….” She grips Dr. Johnson’s elbow. “It won’t make a single shred of difference. The only thing that does help and keep everyone safe is having her locked in here. Whatever you do…do not open that lock for anything! You hear me? Anything!” Frightfully, Dr. Parkerson steps closer to Dr. Johnson’s face driving in her order. “I’ve tried arranging for her transfer but I can’t find a facility that wants her. If you want to try speaking to her you must do as we have just done. Stay far away from the window. Especially, because of the vents. And don’t…just don’t go inside!”
“I have never seen anything like that before, Dr. Parkerson!” Dr. Johnson exclaims placing her hand on her chest. She backs completely away from the room as she and Dr. Parkerson travel back down the hall to the gate around the corner double time. Seeing Leslie stammer, Dr. Parkerson takes her new recruit by the arm and leads her. Dr. Johnson’s hands sweat, the charts nearly slip from her clammy grip. She continues to swallow and breathe deep until the urge to vomit dissipates.
“Ah, seen Olga today, did we?” Jacky asks flipping a page in the newspaper with a silly grin.
“Now uh-how would you know that?” Dr. Johnson questions finally feeling herself, now that she’s away from the patient’s room.
“Oh, come on. You’re here long enough you begin to know whose screams belong to who…plus the fact she’s crazy,” He places the paper down and eyes the doctors. “You know, Dr. Parkerson, I was reading about something called demon possession last night on the computer-”
“Now that’s enough, Jacky! Let us out! Right this moment!” Dr. Parkerson shushes pointing her index finger at the gate.
Rolling his eyes, he sighs reaching for the red security button labeled “door.” The gate beeps and opens allowing the shaken up doctors out, to their relief. The gate slides closed behind their quivering exit.
“Claire, what the…she was practically levitating? How in the world is she doing-?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” She faces her then continues clutching Leslie’s arm. “I-I don’t know, Leslie. But she scares the living he-”
The elevator beeps, the doors slide open. The shuttering doctors step in as quickly as possible, and head down to the first floor to try and make some sense of the wicked encounter they’ve set their eyes upon.
Walking into the cafeteria, the doctors grab a hot cup of coffee and sit at a secluded table, away from the other doctors taking a break. The quiet and serine atmosphere can do them good about now.
“Leslie, I can’t imagine what you must be thinking.” Dr. Parkerson lowers her voice seemingly calming down. “Certainly second thoughts about this job may be flooding your mind, after seeing something like that. I know I would.” She pours cream into her coffee cup, stirs it with a small straw then nervously and shakily cups it and brings it to her mouth for a sip.
“Claire, there is something you should know about me, which is a very real part of who I am. I do believe in medication as a means to help people cope with things which should be dealt with, in a commitment of therapy. However, I also believe in the power of God,” Claire’s eyes widen as she swallows. “I’m a Christian and what I saw back there is nothing like I have ever witnessed in my life. It scared me to death.”
Dr. Johnson places the employee folder in front of the elderly doctor, she raises her brows. Claire hesitantly opens it joyful at the signature on Dr. Leslie Johnson’s contract.
She faces Leslie and stares into her green eyes. “So, with this signed contract, I imagine you are in for at least a year of hell here, Dr. Johnson?” Dr. Parkerson places her coffee cup down, tidies her bun, and smiles while gasping a deep breath.
Dr. Johnson in turn is unable to stop her quivering hands yet raises her paper cup to Dr. Parkerson. The older woman sighs then lifts her cup and clinks it.
“Well…welcome, Dr. Johnson. Welcome.”
If you’ve enjoyed reading the first 2 chapters, tread to my author page, http://www.amazon.com/author/aimeebejarano
5-Stars! “A Must Read about ghosts, the occult and God! Having read and fallen in love with each of Aimeé Marie Bejarano’s fictions, I counted the days before I could get this one. Within the pages, I discovered the depth of the authors desire to gift readers a spine-tingling read that cannot be put down!”
“A MASTERPIECE Revealing the Fight Against Evil. An enthralling story dealing with the dark side of the spiritual world. Yes, it is Christian orientated and as all Christians are aware, “we fight not against flesh and blood but against principalities, powers and rulers in high places.” (Ephesians 6:12).” –
Crystal Mary Lindsey (Author)
“With a great story and fantastic characters I as a reader was thoroughly entertained. I look forward to reading the next installment in the series.” – Sharon Lopez