Fear – The Word Worker

The Castle

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“Hurry! We’re gonna get caught in it!” Jenny shrieked, stumbling over the rocks on her way down the hill.

“Don’t be a wimp!” Jake grumbled behind her, hopping from stone to stone instead. “It’s just water! Why are you such a GIRL?”

“I AM a girl, stupid!” Jenny stuck her tongue out, then pulled up short at the path, staring straight ahead with her mouth open.

“Woah, where’d that come from?” Jake hopped from the last stone into the dirt. A loud pattering of drops slapped the top of the hill, accompanied by a gust of wind and a clap of thunder. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

“It’s creepy!” Jenny hung back, glancing from the shell of castle that had apparently sprung out of the moors to the sheets of rain darkening the clouds behind them.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Jake grabbed his sister’s arm and yanked her into the shelter of the stone tower at the corner of the castle. Despite the high, circular windows, the tower was dark, and the children shivered in the still air.

“Jake,” the girl whimpered. “I don’t like it here! I wanna go home!”

“Shh! Did you hear that?” Jake clapped a hand over her mouth and peered wildly into the darkness. The children huddled together, even Jake beginning to admit to himself that he was frightened.

Lightning flashed, and something far above split with a resounding boom that drowned the thunder. The walls of the tower shimmered and crackled with energy, their dim light reflecting from something tall and metallic in the center of the room.

As the light went out, Jake caught his breath. “Jenny,” he whispered, his voice quivering. “Did you see it move?”

A clank echoed against the stone, and Jenny screamed.

The Creek

It wasn’t there before. I was sure of it. The tumbledown cottage was just barely visible over the creekbank, granted, and the trees were only recently bare. I might have missed it if I wasn’t paying attention. Still, that roof had to have been falling in for years to reach its current state, and I walked this creek every week.

Well, usually. I’d had to babysit my little brother all month while my parents volunteered all the fall functions the town council insisted on hosting in October. I was pretty sure only homework got us kids out of that; not that it saved me at all. Instead I got talked to death about costumes, jumped out at from corners every five minutes, and regaled with every free Halloween soundtrack available on the internet.

Now that I could finally visit the creek again, it didn’t offer the respite I expected. Something had been off since I started walking. It wasn’t just the bare branches; even the water felt dark, as if something malevolent hung over it. And now that cottage had me looking wound to see if I had somehow lost my way, even though I had followed the creek like always.

Something bright in the tangle on the bank ahead caught my eye. I took a step closer, peering to make out a tiny bonnet and what looked like corn husks wound tight. For a second I thought it must be one of the town decorations and started to reach for it before the panic set in. My hand froze in midair and against my will my gaze jerked to the almost hidden roof. As I turned to run I heard the water cackle, and leafless talons scored my back as the creek closed over my head.

Mr. Meanie

“I was yelling at Mr. Meanie! He just WON’T! LEAVE! ME! ALONE! I can’t do anything right anymore!”

The above came from my tearful, sobbing seven year old son. He had thrown his playthings and rushed to his room growling like a cornered tiger. To an outsider it might have looked like a temper tantrum, but tantrums are intentional and controlled. In that moment my son was helpless, trapped by his own mind and desperately screaming for help. This is the face of OCD.

My son is bright and beautiful. He can build anything he can imagine with Legos. He knows more than I ever realized existed about dinosaurs. He loves Godzilla and could probably provide sound effects for the movies with his imitation skills. He has a gift for finding the lonely and offering love. He adores his little sister and, though they fight like cats and dogs, will demolish anyone else who dares to offend her.

One tiny part of that beautiful little brain malformed. A section of neurological wiring has a short. Thoughts that feel like his but are not, unbidden and unwelcome feelings, and unwilled behaviors originate in that shorted out, alien knot. Chemical help can mute them to a whisper. Therapy can provide strategies for working around the shirt in the wiring. Nothing will ever make them go away. His whole life will be a battle with Mr. Meanie, the alien inside.

For now, we turn off the lights and snuggle on the bed, his head on my chest and his hand clutching my arm. Worship music plays from my phone, his choice, soft and soothing in its reminder of a love that bears his pain. He doesn’t fully understand it yet, but he can feel it, and his tension fades. We have quieted Mr. Meanie. For now.

Peace, Be Still

When God called Moses from the burning bush, Moses already knew God. He had already felt a calling to help his people, a purpose greater than himself. Because his early efforts had failed, what he did not feel was equipped. He pleaded to be excused from the task because he did not think he had the tools to do it. God sent him anyway.

When Jezebel put a price on Elijah’s head, Elijah already knew God. He was a wanted man because he had taken a stand for God in the face of powerful retribution. He didn’t flee and hide because he didn’t believe in the cause, but because he felt discouraged. No one stood with him, and he could see nothing but lonely failure. God fed him, let him rest, then sent him back to stand again anyway.

When Saul’s entire focus bent toward killing David, the future king already knew God. Saul hated him because his great trust in the Lord had brought victory and respect of which Saul was unworthy. David didn’t flee Israel because he rejected God, and even in self-imposed exile he tried to help God’s people. He fled because he was tired and afraid. Not only was he in danger himself, but his entire family and thousands who supported him stood to lose their lives. God reminded him that danger was everywhere and sent him back to keep fighting anyway.

When Jesus sat in the garden facing death in the morning, He was God. He wept and trembled, not because He didn’t believe in His plan, but from the pain and grief of knowing what the people He loved would do, the suffering that was necessary for them to cause Him before they would understand His love. The angels comforted Him and He faced the cross anyway.

When the storm threatened the disciples’ ship, they already knew God. He was in the boat with them. They panicked, not because they weren’t aware of Him, but because they weren’t used to relying on Him. They thought they had faith because they believed He could save them. Jesus said they had none because they didn’t believe that He would.

So often we run – from the storm, from the task, from the danger. Perhaps we feel unequal to the challenge, think we lack tools needed to be successful. Perhaps we feel alone and cannot see how one person could make a difference. Perhaps the enemy is so massive that we see no other option but to hide, to pretend we are something other than we are. Perhaps the cost is so high, the loss so painful, that we must weep and tremble for a while. Perhaps we really do believe that, although God exists, we are still on our own.

It’s time to let God send us back to stand. Trust that He is equipped whether we are or not. Know that whether or not any human stands with us we are not alone. Shine against the pain of the world’s betrayal of our God. Let His peace still the storm.

Crow

Brent chortled into the mask. This was gonna be the best prank ever. Forget trick-or-treating, that was stupid kid stuff. He was gonna scare the pants off some partiers in the park tonight. He just needed to find the perfect spot.

He ducked under a vine that hung over the entrance to an old footpath. It obviously hadn’t been used in some time; the parks department must have decided it wasn’t worth maintaining. It would be perfect. He slipped the crow mask over his head and ducked behind a nearby tree. Just enough cover to keep him hidden until drunk party goers walked right up on him. Grinning in satisfaction, he turned around to lean against the trunk and wait.

Behind him on the trail stood another guy in the same mask. Brent jumped, then groaned. “Oh, come on, man! This is my prank! Find another crowd to get your kicks off of, will you?” The other masked figure stood motionless and silent, staring at Brent with arms behind his thin frame. Brent fidgeted. “Hey, that’s an awesome costume. You really know how to get in character, don’t you?”

The beak clicked lightly, setting the black feathers above it trembling. Brent suddenly realized that his own had been tickling him for several minutes as they blew in the breeze, but the other guy’s feathers hadn’t moved at all until that moment. He cleared his throat, darting glances back down the main path, hoping for some early revellers, some lost trick-or-treaters, anything. The beak clicked again, then opened into a black maw. Brent’s scream was lost in the croaking rasp of the crow.

Book Teaser: Chosen – The Vampyr

At first glance the figures gliding down through the trees seemed non-threatening, almost human. They wore leather jackets that hung low and had ragged holes worn in elbows and tail. As their feet touched the ground, my skin began to crawl. Three pairs of red eyes stared out of bloodless faces. One of them focused its gaze upon me, a smile snaking across its face to reveal the tips of sharp yellow teeth. His head slowly tilted to one side then the other as he moved with sinuous grace in a semi-circle around me. A finger tipped with a long, cracked nail traced a line up my arm, setting my hairs on end and sending a shudder through my entire frame. The finger traced its way around the back of my neck, and I could feel its breath in my hair, its scent oddly metallic, but I could not will my feet to move away.

“Enough!” Dagda’s voice cut through the fog beginning to fill my mind, carrying a sharp anger I would never have associated with the gentle Dagda of Earth legend. The creature sucked in a breath and stepped away, turning attention to him.

“Your Majesty,” he hissed, making the words an insult rather than an honor. He bowed low, sweeping an arm wide as greasy tendrils of hair trailed across the grass. I shrank in disgust to the protection of Balhon’s great side as I realized that everywhere a part of the creature’s body touched the grass turned brown and yellow, as if the land itself sickened upon contact with him.

“What brings you to Tylwyth, Grigore?” Dagda demanded, his voice icy. “This valley is far from Upir, and I don’t recall granting you safe passage.”

“Dracul rages against your enforced borders,” the creature sneered. “We starve in the dead lands; we need blood.”

“You are provided with blood in plenty,” Dagda responded coldly. “Live game is driven through your borders daily upon which your people sate themselves with disgusting abandon.”

“Animal blood!” Grigore spat. He eyed me with his tongue caressing the fangs revealed in his sudden feral grin. “What kind of life can be eked from blood with so little power? Dracul craves the blood of intelligent beings.”

What If…

In the book of Mark we read about a man who was deathly ill, plagued with leprosy. This man had nothing left to lose, and threw himself at Jesus feet with a poignant faith born of desperate need. “If you are willing, you can make me clean.”

What if Jesus had practiced social distancing? It was the law, after all. The law He had given, in fact. Those who were sick with leprosy (a death sentence at the time and highly contagious) were unclean and anyone who came in contact with them became unclean. Lepers were cast out of society to die a slow, painful, lonely, poverty-stricken death.

What if when the leper fell on his face before Jesus and begged for healing, Jesus had stepped away to a safe distance? What if He had covered his face? What if He had demanded the leper follow the law to be examined by a priest and ritually cleansed before coming into His presence? What if He had ordered every other person nearby to declare themselves unclean from contact with the leper and be ritually cleansed by a priest before allowing them to interact with others, even their own families? What if He didn’t reach out and touch the leper with His own hand, didn’t look into his eyes and say, “I am willing?”

What if the law He had given was not about physical sickness at all? What if it was an object lesson about the importance of separating ourselves from the attitudes and behaviors of those who do not acknowledge God? What if it was about the corruption of a fearful and unbelieving heart? What if it was a reminder to look to Him for heart healing? What if God’s people got it wrong?

What if Jesus had stayed in Heaven? What if He kept His distance from all the corruption of men? What if He didn’t show His face on Earth so that men could know Him? What if He avoided the diseased and the outcasts to appease the misguided and self-absorbed people and to escape their constant verbal abuse? What if He didn’t speak about the depth and the wonder of His covenant, of the Kingdom which is not of this world, and fulfilled the Satan-driven desire of mankind for a perfect and safe physical life? What if He avoided the anger and rejection that tortured His body and broke His heart, that nailed His physical body to a cross and lifted His love so high that no one could avoid seeing it?

What if He didn’t come to be safe or comfortable or admired? What if being saved is not about being safe? What if following His example means I will look different, that I will never be accepted, that I will face misunderstanding and abuse at the hands of other humans? What if I stand beneath His cross, facing the world maskless, fearless, limitless, reaching out to hold the hands of the hopeless and lift them out of the pit?

What if?

The Mor-Rhiogain

FB_IMG_1571453145156 Babh waited under the black branches of the dead oak. She preened her dark feathers in satisfaction at the fear she sensed from the forest denizens. In the shadows of the night, all that could be seen of her were her eyes, glowing flame red.

The harvest moon rose high above the castle she watched, bathing its white towers in soft light. Her claws curled, scraping unpleasantly against the stone upon which she perched. The light would save no one tonight. Soon, her sisters would return and her vigil would end.

As she gleefully imagined the coming reunion, the mist rose from the river below. Thick, like the hated smoke from the castle kitchens, it billowed up the sides of the mountain. When it reached the causeway, her sisters would call, and she would answer.

Macha and Anann appeared black against the mist, their wings morphing into long arms tipped with bloodred nails, dark hair flying around pale faces in the windless night. Babh spread her own wings and rose into the moonlight, her screech of joy freezing the blood of the humans awaiting their fate.

She heard their cries, tasted their terror, as her feathers lengthened and knit together, her power calling the mist to her as a great dragon covering her victims with its mighty wings. She opened her mouth as her sisters strode purposefully to the gate, their hands outstretched for blood. Her bain sidh wail echoed from the walls and shattered the gates.

The mist shattered with them, and an army of shadows descended upon the one who despised the Mor-Rhiogain. Driven by the bain sidh, the dead would collect, unhindered by sword or spear. Babh would have her revenge, and her sisters would feast upon the blood.

The Mor-Rhiogain had returned.

The Reflection

FB_IMG_1570588551040 Midnight in the wood. Everyone said if you went to the wood at midnight you would see your true self in the mist. It was a stupid legend, fit to entertain highschoolers and frighten children. Yet here he was.

If it weren’t for the strangeness of the last few days, he would never have even considered coming. The October chill was bone biting under the trees, and he hated hiking. But things had happened. Things that could not be ignored. Even chasing a stupid story was better than that.

He stamped his feet and shoved his numb hands deeper into his coat pockets. Mist rose from the rotting loam inder his feet, enveloping him with suffocating speed. He gasped for air, only to realize that he hadn’t been suffocating at all, merely holding his breath. His eyes darted from one side to the other, and he swiveled nervously, his rapid breathing creating temporary pockets in the mist.

A blinding light brought his hand to his eyes, a shield against the pain. A shadow rushed across the light, and he squinted through his fingers, his heart pounding, trying to discern the threat. His eyes widened as an impossibly large hand, the mirror image of his own, parted the mist. Another joined it, lifting into the light without being illuminated by it. Shaking, he followed the second hand as it rose above a faceless head.

The shadow giant stood facing him, seemingly frozen, and he let out a sharp chuckle at his own gullibility. Just a play of light and shadows, someone playing a long standing joke on the town, no doubt. At the sound of his voice, two eyes snapped open in the shadow head, freezing his breath in his lungs. Their glowing pinpoints burned whitehot into his brain. He didn’t even hear his own scream.

They found him the next morning, stiff and frozen, eyes staring in horror with the image of the shadow etched into his eyes.