It must have been
the very late fall
of 1971. Maybe early
December. It was a
cold, central
Michigan night but
the pavement was dry
and the air was
clear, and I was
flying around the
curves on River
Road, easily
slipping up and down
through the gears
and putting my '65
Triumph Herald
through its paces.
I
was drunk but I
don't remember how
or why other than I
had just turned 18,
and in January the
legal drinking age
was about to change,
and I know some of
my friends and I
took this as an
opportunity to get a
head start on our
rapidly approaching
young adulthood. As
I think back, this
might have followed
a night of road
beers in Mike
Naffziger's very
cherry red '68
Camaro. I remember
now. That was it.
Dave Hoxie, Steve
Burke and I had left
our cars in a
downtown Alma
parking lot and had
killed a six pack
apiece while
cruising the back
roads out west of
town with Naffziger.
Afterward, we picked
our cars up to go
home, and it was too
early and I was too
drunk to sneak into
the house, so I
decided to kill some
time by running the
curves on River
Road, out north of
St. Louis.
So, I was out on
River Road alone and
suddenly feeling
drunker than before,
when another car
came up on my rear
and jockeyed out
into the left lane
to pass. I decided
that wasn't going to
happen.
Accelerating, I
drifted half way
into the other lane,
then angled back and
hugged the right
line like a Formula
One driver to set up
my drift through the
next curve. Whoever
was behind me caught
on and the race was
on. The four
cylinder Triumph
wasn't powerful, but
its handling
characteristics were
excellent and I did
know how to drive
it. The faster
American car could
run up on my tail
but he couldn't get
around me, and this
went on for several
miles. Paying more
attention to my rear
view mirror than to
the road in front of
me, I felt
victorious as the
headlights of the
slowing vehicle
behind me began to
move farther back.
Then, out of
nowhere, the old one
lane WPA steel
bridge that was
still there in those
days appeared, and I
was suddenly
breaking,
downshifting,
swerving and
terrified. Somehow,
I missed the
concrete abutment
and proceeded to
fishtail across the
bridge, just missing
the side rails and
finally decelerating
off of the other
side.
By now I was panting
and shaking, and
pulled off on the
shoulder and
stopped. The driver
of the other car
came off of the
bridge and turned
his dome light on so
I wouldn't miss the
fact that he was
giving me the finger
as he drove past.
The insult thus
added to the injury,
he sped off into the
night and I was
alone. My stomach
was heaving and I
got out into the
cold night air and
vomited violently
behind the car. The
exhaust fumes and a
whiff of hot
transmission grease
inspired an
additional round of
dry heaves, and it
felt like my guts
had turned inside
out. I climbed back
into the car and
wiped my mouth on
the napkins from the
A&W I kept
stashed in the glove
box, then decided
that it was now time
to head for home.
As I rolled easily
and much more slowly
back down River Road
and through St.
Louis, then down
Michigan Avenue
towards Alma, I
found myself sober
enough to be deeply
shaken by what had
just occurred, and
drunk enough yet to
come up with an idea
I wouldn't have
followed through on
sober, even if it
had occurred to me,
which it probably
would not have.
I turned into the
Eastminster
Presbyterian Church
lot and decided that
I was going to go in
and pray --
something I did
little of at this
point in my life.
Pulling around to
the back of the
church where I would
not attract the
attention of the
late night police
patrols, I went in
through the back
door and made my way
through the
fellowship hall to
the sanctuary. I sat
in the back of the
church in the dark
and I found myself
overwhelmed by the
quiet. I tried to
speak to God, to
give thanks for the
fact that I wasn't
being pulled mangled
and dead from the
wreckage of my
little sports car,
and in the quietude
and peace, where I
expected to find
solace, I found
nothing at all. It
seemed empty and
cold and dark, like
the universe itself.
And I was alone.
Slowly,
the
anger I had bottled
up in me began to
bubble and slowly
come to a boil.
I was going to
college and hated
it. I just wanted to
work and make money,
but my boss at JC
Penney's had told me
that if I wasn't
going to college
they would hire
someone who was
willing to do so.
Fine by me, as I was
a hard worker and
jobs were a dime a
dozen in those days,
but my folks kept
telling me that they
wanted me to have
the advantage of the
education that they
could never have,
though from my
perspective they
certainly hadn't
done badly without
it. A highly
unmotivated student,
I was in the process
of flunking out of
Alma College and
blowing the money I
had saved through
high school in the
bargain, and it
wasn't lost on me at
all that this was
enough to buy a
really nice set of
wheels. And I was
much more motivated
towards making money
and driving nice
cars than I was
towards a college
education. The one
reason I had always
had for going to
school was to avoid
going to Vietnam,
but a high number in
the lottery solved
that problem, and
the benefit of a
deferment had
evaporated before I
had even left high
school.
My life seemed to
have no purpose and
no meaning. And to
give it some was
going to mean
confronting all of
this and making some
major changes. And
there would be
wailing and gnashing
of teeth at my house
to make this happen.
In the midst of
this, I had worked
out a plan with my
grandmother in
secret that would
eventually allow me
to assume control of
what was left of the
last farm property
in the family, and
this was the point
in my life when I
was truly getting in
touch with my deep
country roots. But I
also knew that this
was a major
transition and
required a maturity
that I believed I
could grow into, but
had yet to achieve.
It was a dream much
more than a done
deal, and the truth
of this would
shortly be revealed
in no uncertain
terms.
And the back drop to
all of this was the
fact that though my
childhood and young
social life were
centered around an
active church
participation, I now
quietly, but also
deeply, questioned
my faith in God. I
did not know how to
approach my pastor
about this, so, in
the fall of 1971, I
had made my first
attempt at finding
the answer to this
deeper question by
taking a religion
class at Alma
College. The class I
chose was taught by
Dr. J. Tracy Luke, a
man my father new
and liked, and
someone I knew from
the times he had
preached at
Eastminster. This
proved to be a much
different experience
than what I
expected, as the man
who I thought would
help me strengthen
my faith had, in
truth, lost his. And
though this was an
Old Testament class,
many of his lectures
ended up in diatribe
against the
Christian faith and
in a renunciation of
church and all it
stood for. And so,
here was the
ordained
Presbyterian pastor
I had chosen as the
man who would reveal
the deeper Christian
truth to me,
displaying a harsh
bitterness towards
the faith and a deep
disdain for those
who sincerely
believed it. In
those days, I didn't
speak up in class. I
just listened and
learned; took it all
in. And, as I sat
there in the
darkness and cold of
this empty church
that had brought me
so many joyful
moments in more
innocent days past,
it suddenly seemed
to be the great lie
Dr. Luke said it
was. There was
nothing here. There
was no one here. And
this was the moment
in which I came to
believe that Tracy
Luke was right.
On somewhat wobbly
legs, I made my way
up to the front of
the sanctuary. The
pale light from the
car wash next door
showed through the
colored windows and
cast a surreal and
eerie glow over the
scene. I stood
facing the cross on
the back wall and I
proceeded to give
God the tongue
lashing I only hoped
his ears would hear:
"You didn't save me
tonight, I was just
lucky. You're not
even there and if
you are, you are so
far away you don't
care about me or
anybody else. There
is no love in you
and this is all just
bullshit..."
On and on it went
like this, and the
longer I ranted the
more emotional I
became. With tears
now streaming down
my face and choked
with raw emotion, I
screamed into the
dark, "If you are
real show yourself!
Why do you hide?
Reveal yourself!
Show me you are real
and show me what to
do and I will do it!
Give me a sign and I
will follow it! Show
me the the truth and
I will believe it!
And if you want to
strike me dead, do
it! Come on, do it!"
I waited for the
revelation, the
lightning strike,
whatever it was that
God was going to do
to prove to me he
was real, but
nothing happened. No
answer. The silence
became more
deafening, and I
fell to the floor on
the steps leading up
to the altar, or
"Lord's Table" as it
is called in
Presbyterianism, and
wept as bitterly as
Peter, though
believing that it
was the Lord who had
denied me and not
the other way
around. The silence
and the darkness
only seemed to
confirm the
emptiness I felt
inside of me. My
worst fears were
realized. There was
no God. Or worse,
there was and he
didn't care.
With
my
head now pounding, I
got slowly to my
feet and slipped
quietly back through
the church and
climbed in the
Triumph waiting
outside. As usual,
the little engine
fired on a quarter
turn and I rolled
through the parking
lot with the lights
off. Entering the
street and flipping
the switch on
resulted in an
almost blinding
brightness. The
truth of artificial
light. I drove home
in the numbed
silence of my mind,
slipped quietly into
the house, went to
bed and slept it
off.
From
the
time of this late
night non-encounter
with God at
Eastminster, there
occurred what Lemony
Snicket would call
"a series of
unfortunate events."
In January, my
grandmother suffered
a massive heart
attack and died
suddenly, and so did
the dream of the
farm. In May, my
other grandmother
passed away from the
same cause and
almost as suddenly.
These were two women
of quiet strength
and deep faith who
had both been a kind
and loving
inspiration to me,
and I felt their
loss deeply, as did
our family in
general and my
parents in
particularly. By
this time, my friend
Rex Fetzner's older
brother, Gary, who
had been our Sunday
School teacher and a
pillar of faith and
spiritual strength
in his fight against
Multiple Sclerosis,
was now clearly
losing the battle
and was obviously
gong to succumb to
the disease -- which
he subsequently did.
Gary was a hero to
me, and the more I
prayed for him to
recover, the sicker
he became. This may
not have been the
sole cause of my
anger with God and
the unbelief that
resulted, but it was
surely a major
contributing factor.
However, the coup
de gras to
my mortally
wounded faith came
on a beautiful,
early summer day
when Bobby
Macdonald, the six
year old son of
our pastor, Ross,
was hit by a truck
and, in spite of
several hours of
emergency surgery
and the fervent
prayers of the
entire community,
died from his
injuries later
that same day.
This meant that
when I finally saw
the need to turn
to my pastor in
hopes of
strengthening my
own faith, I would
find him,
understandably
enough, struggling
with his own.
By the early fall of
1972 I had entered
into an ongoing and
deep depression and
had begun a slow,
downward spiral into
unbelief that would
ultimately result in
years of doing wrong
things for what
seemed like right
reasons, and right
things for wrong
reasons I was unable
to recognize. Losing
sight of heaven now
made me concentrate
my energies within
the world, and
material success was
easy to achieve and
seemed to fill the
holes and dark
places in my life.
Flunking out of
school initially
seemed like a good
thing, as I worked
full time and made
money and drove
better cars -- first
a '71 Mustang
Fastback 2+2 and,
when I tired of it,
a bright red Triumph
Spitfire. I
continued to attend
church out of force
of habit and because
it was my social
life. It was at
church that I met a
girl named Cheryl
McCarty who was a
student at Alma
College and, mostly
because everyone
else thought we were
such a nice couple,
we ended up deciding
to marry. It seemed
like a good idea at
the time. And with
any real belief in
God voided from the
equation, I now saw
church as a powerful
force for social
good and a source of
healing for troubled
souls, and after
broaching the
subject of the
Presbyterian
ministry with the
still grieving Ross
Macdonald, he seemed
to grasp onto this
idea with an
enthusiasm greater
than my own.
This would, of
course, mean going
back to college
for a bachelor's
degree and then on
to seminary for
three years, and
this raised
obvious issues for
someone who was
not merely a drop
out but a flunk
out. However, by
applying myself
and working hard I
had done very well
in the working
world, and, by the
time I turned 20
in the fall of
1973, I was a
local assistant
manager at the new
K-Mart in Mt.
Pleasant. I made
good money, was
respected as
something of a wunderkind
by my bosses and
co-workers, and
was being groomed
for company
management. This
had me brimming
with self
confidence at the
same time that I
was growing tired
of being looked
down upon as
intellectually
deficient and a
failure by those
who thought this
was what it meant
when I was asked
to leave Alma
College. And many
with this attitude
were counted among
those I attended
church with, and I
relished the idea
of sticking this
right in their
faces and showing
them that I was as
good as their kid
and as good as
anybody else.
Hell, even better.
As for Cheryl, she
was totally enamored
of the life of a
pastor's wife, and
so we had ourselves
a plan. This plan
was put into effect
when we were married
in the spring of
1974. Going back to
Alma College turned
out to be a
relatively easy
matter of getting my
grade point average
up to 2.0 and
demonstrating
elsewhere that I had
the ability to
succeed as a
student. I enrolled
in three courses at
Montcalm Community
College in Sidney,
and enjoyed many a
glorious morning in
the summer of '74
roaring the forty
miles to Sidney with
the top down on the
Spitfire. I found
the classwork easy
and enjoyable, and
racked up three
"A's" in my three
classes. My grade
point average
breasted the tape at
2.1, and Alma
College welcomed me
home in September. I
asked Tracy Luke to
be my faculty
adviser and I began
to mold an academic
career in the
likeness and image
of his.
At church, I began
working as Ross
McDonald's paid
assistant. I
remember hearing
Jerry Falwell once
refer to the
ministry students at
what was then
Liberty Baptist
College as his
"little preacher
boys," and while I
found this remark
distasteful, it
aptly described what
I was and what I did
for Ross McDonald.
To be fair, I
enjoyed it. It was
easy and the more
pastoral Ross, as my
mentor in learning
the Presbyterian
ministry, proved to
be a nice
counterbalance to
the acerbic,
sarcastic and
outspoken Tracy
Luke, and I began to
mold my professional
life in the likeness
and image of his. I
got the opportunity
to preach,
discovered I was
quite good at it,
and earned the
respect that I had
sought by doing all
of this. And I had a
wife who was proud
and pleased with the
progress of her
little preacher boy.
For a while, this
all went very
smoothly. In fact,
it went so smoothly
and I was so focused
and absorbed in what
I was doing that it
took me very much by
surprise when Ross
Macdonald took me in
his office one day,
closed the door, and
confided in me that
he had accepted a
new position as an
associate pastor at
a bigger
Presbyterian Church
in the town of
Pittsfield, New
York. I was stunned.
And since the time
required to fill his
position with a new
pastor was 18 months
or so, the question
of who would do this
in the interim was
of general
importance to
everyone and of
particular
importance to me.
And the solution
that he had come up
with was equally
surprising: he had
asked Tracy Luke to
assume the duties of
the Moderator of the
Session (the
governing body of
the church) while I
would gain even more
valuable experience
running the day to
day operations of
the church in an
expanded version of
my role as preacher
boy. I could supply
the pulpit three
Sundays a month and
Tracy could do the
other. We could
share the pastoral
duties and I would
run the basic
programming. It all
sounded good, and
when Ross confided
to Tracy and to me
that he and his
wife, Ginny, were
not dealing well
with the death of
their son and
desperately needed a
change in their
lives, it all
sounded necessary.
So the Macdonalds
left for Pittsfield
at the time of our
first wedding
anniversary, and my
life, my marriage
and the life of
Eastminster
Presbyterian Church
deteriorated
rapidly. The church
was in financial
crisis, there was a
threat from the
Presbytery to revoke
the charter and
merge it with the
much disliked bigger
Presbyterian Church
in town, and the
infighting between
the various factions
that had been
suppressed under
Ross for the sake of
church unity now
re-erupted. Suddenly
it seemed as though
all of the pots on
the stove that Ross
Macdonald had been
able to keep a lid
on boiled over at
once. Tracy Luke's
approach to the
session and the
congregation was to
heal their wounds by
ripping off the
bandages, scrubbing
them in public, and
dousing it all with
iodine. And the more
this made the
faithful howl, the
more effective he
determined he was
being. In fact, he
enjoyed it. And now
that my professional
life in the church
was also molded in
the likeness and
image of my academic
career at college, I
found myself square
in the middle of
this and began
following my leader
by denouncing the
church and the very
Christian faith
itself from the
pulpit. And in the
midst of this
turmoil, my young
wife learned to
loathe me, and, in
my self righteous
hubris, I her.
By the time the
academic year ended
at Alma College in
the spring of 1976,
the Eastminster
session had convened
without Tracy Luke
or myself present
and decided that
they would do
whatever was
necessary to call a
pastor sooner rather
than later. It was
determined that my
services were no
longer required, and
this was fine by me.
Since I had become
so adept at
alienating the
congregation present
from the pulpit, I
took the honor of
preaching at
Cheryl's home church
in Sarnac on the
July 4th weekend of
the Bicentennial as
an opportunity to
expound upon the
ills of the United
States as well as
denounce the
Christian faith, and
did so in a way
calculated to be of
maximum offense to
her conservative
Republican parents.
And my calculations
were right on the
mark. After a quiet
and tense ride home,
she moved out the
next day. This was a
relief to both of
us, as at least it
meant the constant
arguing and fighting
was finally over. I
was so tired of
hearing about what
an ass I was that I
decided I would
prove it once and
for all, and I most
certainly did. I
actually ended a
marriage with a
sermon, and, in a
twisted kind of way,
I was even proud of
myself.
The fall of 1976
marked the beginning
of my senior year at
Alma College and it
began under far
different
circumstances than I
had originally
expected. A friend
of mine moved in to
the apartment Cheryl
and I had shared,
and then his
girlfriend moved in
with him, and I
didn't mind, as it
covered the
expenses. I began to
hang out with my
college friends, and
for the only time in
my college career, I
actually lived like
a student without
all of the
responsibility and
drama that had been
the case heretofore.
The extra time I now
had on my hands was
devoted to smoking
marijuana, going to
the bars, and
finishing up the
light class load I
had in preparation
of graduation. On
rare occasions, I
did heavier
hallucinogens like
LSD or mescaline. I
spent much more time
with Jack Quirk, my
best friend in the
religion department,
and someone I
quietly admired
because he had
somehow maintained
his basic faith in
God even in the face
of persecution from
our professors,
including, and
perhaps most
notably, Tracy Luke.
I had left mine on
the floor of
Eastminster
Presbyterian Church,
right in front of
the Lord's Table on
a cold, December
night some years
before. One would
think that in the
study of religion at
a Presbyterian
college this would
make me the
exception rather
than the rule, but
it wasn't so. Jack
Quirk, as a
believer, was the
exception in our
department. And
those who did openly
profess to be
Christians in that
place and at that
time, were routinely
ridiculed, belittled
and mocked, and I
know this for a fact
because I did this
myself and was proud
of it. Proud of it.
When winter term
came, I found myself
in need of one class
to meet the
requirements for
graduation. Money
was tighter now
because I had
thought I was
graduating in
December, and the
one science class I
was short took me by
surprise. Since my
folks now spent
their winters in
Florida, I was able
to let go of the
apartment and move
into their house in
Alma for the last
few months of my
college career. This
allowed me more time
to be introspective,
and the first
inkling I had that
there might be a
spiritual awakening
in the offing was
the fact that I
decided, much
against my usual
egoism, to drop my
senior honors
thesis. The topic I
was working on was
the origin of the
Christ concept in
the dying and rising
god motifs of the
ancient Canaanite
Ba'al myths, and
when I realized at
one point in my
research that
satanism had it's
origin in these
ancient pagan myths,
I knew that I would
eventually end up
arguing that Christ
and Satan actually
shared a common
historical origin.
The idea that an
historical argument
could be made that
Jesus Christ and
Satan were,
essentially, the
same person amused
Tracy Luke, and my
first inclination
was towards
excitement at
thinking of such a
radical topic to
write upon. But the
more I thought about
it, and as I did the
research for it, I
found something deep
within in me that
didn't want to turn
this corner. I
touched a profound
sadness in the murky
depths of my being
that spoke to me and
said quietly, "This
stops here."
A great emptiness
now seemed to fill
me and engulf my
life. I was lonely
in a way that
companionship with
friends and even my
deeper conversations
with Jack Quirk
couldn't fill. It
was a spiritual
loneliness that he
demonstrated with a
voice that echoed in
the void, "Is
anybody there?" It
was an existential
voice that posed a
question the answer
to which was the
lack of any answer.
I had asked this
question that night
years before when I
had almost died on
River Road, and the
answer still
reverberated, not
answered and yet not
unanswered. Still it
echoed in the void
which meant that it
had continued to be
asked. An argument
from silence is not
valid historical
method. The lack of
an answer is not a
definitive proof. I
still wanted to
know: Is anybody
there? The question
was still valid and
the lack of an
answer proved
nothing. Perhaps the
question itself was
invalid if posed to
a God who proved to
be as distant and
uninvolved as that
imagined by the
Deists. Perhaps the
question of a
greater spiritual
reality could be
posed to a closer
and less
disinterested
entity. But where to
find one?
Springtime came
and with it
graduation. Rather
than defined by
the second year
student, the term
"sophomoric" might
better serve as a
description for
one with a newly
minted bachelor's
degree who now
believes himself
to be an anointed
expert in his
chosen field of
endeavor. I saw my
new diploma as
proof that I was
now a bona
fide
expert in matters
religious,
historical and
theological, and
as a credential
that justified my
quest to prove my
evolving theory
that to find God
required a first
step of
establishing the
existence of the
supernatural. I
saw this as both a
spiritual quest
and an academic
pursuit, and it
made perfect sense
to me that success
could lead to a
paper far beyond
the scope of my
discarded senior
thesis. Maybe even
a book.
Graduation was in
mid April of 1977,
and I spent the next
couple of weeks in
the library reading
what I could find on
spiritualism and the
supernatural. There
was little of
scientific or
academic value in
the works I found,
and it was quickly
apparent that
occultists such as
the theosophists
were charlatans and
the so called
"spirit mediums"
frauds. The works of
Carlos Casteneda
came to mind, but to
pursue this course
as he did meant a
chance encounter
with someone who was
involved in the
"deeper way of
knowledge," as those
who practiced this
sort of thing were
not to be found in
the Yellow Pages.
With May came the
Alma College
Spring Term
classes, and with
nothing much
better to do, I
served Tracy
Luke's local
archeology class
as something like
an ad
hoc
graduate adviser,
as I had taken
this class for
three years and
knew my way around
the procedures. I
led a field survey
team, which
established the
location of new
sites of
prehistoric human
occupation, and
required someone
who could relate
to local farmers
and also recognize
and verify the
signs we were
searching for.
Like my mentor,
Dr. Luke, I could
be down to earth,
warm and charming
in such
situations, just
as I could be
terribly caustic
and upsetting in
the pulpit.
One of the students
in this class was a
girl named Melissa
McKinstry, a strange
waif of a girl who
babbled to herself
and seemed off
somewhere in her own
little world. I
noticed that the
other students
treated her as
something of a pet
and an oddity, and I
don't mean that in a
cruel way at all, as
she was also treated
with a certain
dignity and an
amused respect. When
I mentioned to one
of the boys in the
class that she
seemed somewhat,
well, different, he
said, "You mean just
in general or
because she does
stuff like talk to
dead people." This
piqued my interest
and I decided that
Melissa was someone
who should talk to
me. And so I made it
a point to strike up
a conversation with
her and the result
of this would far
exceed any
expectations I could
have had.
Melissa McKinstry
told me of living in
a farmhouse
populated with
ghosts, of
encounters with the
spirits of the dead
and disenfranchised,
and of a spiritual
world filled with
wonders and delights
as well as horrors
and fearsome
creatures. It was a
parallel world that
co-existed and
interacted with the
physical realm, but
did so in a way that
was imperceptible to
any but those few
who where tuned in
to this other
reality. She told
tales of losing her
consciousness in
this realm and
somehow going
through the motions
of her life until
awaking with no
memories of a seven
year period.
Astounding for
someone 18 years of
age. Astounding for
anyone, for that
matter. A relatively
short time before in
my life, this would
have been something
and someone that I
would have written
off as absurd and
insane, or at the
least greatly
deluded, but in my
state of mind at
that time, I was
fascinated. If
Carlos had his Don
Juan, perhaps I had
found my Melissa.
"Can you teach me?"
I asked. Her answer
was that, yes, she
could teach me some
things, but that she
wouldn't be
responsible for me.
I asked her about
God. She told me
that she knew
nothing of God, and
that she made no
attempts at
understanding what
she experienced in a
religious or
philosophical way.
She only reacted to
it as best she could
and took what
happened to her at
face value only. I
asked her, "Then
what does it all
mean?" She
responded, "I don't
know." I asked if
there was such a
thing as good and
evil and she
answered, "Yes.
That's why I can't
be responsible for
you."
On Saturday, May 14,
I took Melissa for a
ride out in the
country so that she
could introduce me
to this other realm
of reality. The
Spitfire was laid up
for some reason, and
so I had borrowed my
dad's '68 Olds
Cutlass. We cruised
up and down the
roads out west of
town that were out
beyond the farm
country and which
went through wooded
areas, swamps and
more undeveloped
places. This was for
the purpose of
performing an
exercise that
Melissa called,
"Good place, bad
place." It was to
learn to sense the
spiritual energy
that was the
residual left behind
by previous human
activity. Or so she
said. We found
several places that
she sensed in this
way and, at which, I
thought I could feel
something of this
residual energy. We
got out of the car
and walked around at
several locations,
and she would ask me
the nature of the
energy present and I
would respond "good"
or "bad." I was able
to guess correctly
-- or somehow I
knew. Back in the
car I asked her how
it was possible to
know we were really
feeling anything at
all and not just
imagining it. With
the radio switched
on and the knob
turned down as low
as it would go, the
radio suddenly rose
in volume and then
fell back silent.
"Little things like
that," Melissa said.
I was impressed.
By now it was late
afternoon and we
were on North Luce
Road heading back
towards Alma. On
this road, we would
go past Adams Road,
which to the east
ended down about a
half mile where the
freeway went
through. Just before
the road ended,
there was a house
that had been
deserted for many,
many years and which
sat in ruins. The
windows were gone,
the yellow brick was
peeling from the
exterior in places,
and it was derelict
and deserted. There
was a barn and
another old
outbuilding that sat
in similar
disrepair. It was an
eerie looking place
to see from Luce
Road, and when one
day Glen Vogelsong
and I had driven
down Adams and had
ventured up close to
it to look around,
we both got a cold,
creepy feeling about
the place and had
left in a hurry. In
light of "good
place, bad place" it
seemed like showing
Melissa this place
was the perfect way
to end the day.
We turned down the
road and as we
approached the
house, Melissa
suddenly became
animated and
insisted we turn
around at once. "Get
out of here now!"
she exclaimed. And
then her head fell
on her chest and she
said calmly, and I
swear in another
voice that was not
hers, "I am a
prisoner here. I am
unloved and alone,
but if you can love
me, you can free
me." Melissa raised
here head again and
resumed her near
panicked insistence
that we needed to
leave at once. I got
the Cutlass turned
around as quickly as
I could and threw
some gravel getting
back out on Luce
Road. "What was that
all about?" I asked
her. Her response
was simply, "I don't
know but it's not
good." I asked her
about the comment
she had made
concerning being a
prisoner, and she
had no idea what I
was talking about.
She was agitated and
upset, and as I
dropped her off at
her dorm, the last
thing she said was,
"Stay away from
there."
Talk about good
advice gone
unheeded. The more I
thought about what
had happened, the
more obsessed I
became with the
house on Adams Road,
and the more
determined I became
to find who or what
was there and what
it all meant. The
words that I had
heard Melissa speak,
or that were spoken
through her, seemed
to be the key to
understanding and
establishing a
deeper communication
with the entity or
whatever it was that
had inspired such a
strong reaction in
her. I was convinced
that this was
something real and,
regardless of
Melissa's strange
and fearful response
to it, I was
convinced that there
was nothing to be
afraid of; that a
more measured and
kindly approach
would result in a
deeper and more
profound
communication, and
that at least some
of what I wanted to
know about greater
spiritual realities
could be learned
here. If Melissa had
led me to learn of
the existence of a
realm beyond our own
physical world, how
much more valuable
would it be to
communicate directly
with someone from
this mysterious
place? And so I
sought the answer to
this question.
I spent most of
Sunday deciding how
to deal with all of
this, and by the
afternoon time, it
seemed I had the
answers. The way to
open and establish
communication with
the entity at the
house was to share a
simple meal with it.
Perhaps this was
more symbolic than
anything else, but
the gesture would
certainly be
appreciated. I
packed a partial
loaf of home baked
bread and a thermos
of iced tea and then
sought the obvious
solution to the
dilemma of not
having a car
available to me. I
called Jack Quirk,
who was always game
for anything, and
who would both find
this all ridiculous
and, at the same
time, go along with
what I wanted to do
and help me out. And
so on this lovely
spring evening, he
picked me up in his
unkempt blue Ford
Pinto and out Luce
Road to Adams we
went.
As expected, Jack
thought this all
absurd, and, as
expected, was game
and went along. As I
made my way down to
the house, he sat
out by Luce Road and
enjoyed a smoke
while taking in the
lovely evening and
even having an
amiable chat with a
police officer who
stopped to ask what
he was up to. Since
he didn't want to
sound as insane as
he presumed I was,
he just stated the
obvious about the
lovely evening and
the smoke and the
officer bought this
and went along his
way.
Meantime, I
approached the house
and invited whatever
it was that was
inside to come out
on the porch and
talk to me.
Something seemed to
move out onto the
front porch and I
could see the
overgrowth of
shrubbery moving at
its presence. At
times it seemed to
fade into near
physicality and
appeared as a
squarish, whitish
object with what
appeared to be horns
like those of a
longhorn steer
perched on top of
it. I sat down out
in the yard and
served my meal. I
told this thing that
this was an offering
of peace and love,
and (based on what
it had said through
Melissa in the car)
this act of kindness
should make it free.
I said, "If love is
what it takes to
make you free, then
I love you and you
are free!" At this,
the entity appeared
as a white mist and
shot high up into
the air and
disappeared. I sat
there for a moment
and then began
walking back up the
road towards the car
and Jack, who was
leaning on the rear
quarter having a
cigarette. The
entity seemed to be
present behind me
and as best I can
describe it,
followed along like
a happy puppy.
"Well, this is most
interesting," I
thought, and I found
the experience
almost exhilarating.
Jack and I ended up
at the Big Boy
having coffee, as I
told him the details
of all of this. On
the way out he said,
"Keep your friend
away from me," and
she moved around to
my side and away
from Jack. Oh yes.
The entity had
assumed a gender
now. I somehow
sensed it was a
female.
Now if I was to
recount in any
detail the high
strangeness that
occurred over the
next two days it
would take up many
pages. Suffice it to
say that as I went
through my daily
routine, the entity
became a companion
that chose to be
around me more and
more, and by the
second day, Tuesday,
May the 17th, this
presence was
becoming oppressive
and the initial
lightheartedness
around all of this
was dissipating into
a rapidly growing
malevolence.
Jack had by now
grown more curious
and wanted to get to
know Melissa, and so
the three of us
found ourselves
walking through
downtown Alma in the
late afternoon so as
to have dinner at
the Burger Chef.
Actually, it was the
four of us. The
entity now tagged
around with me
wherever I went, and
as we walked down
the street it seemed
to use me to shield
the fact of its
presence from Jack
and Melissa. I
contributed
virtually nothing to
the conversation,
and by the time we
were walking home,
as Jack and Melissa
were absorbed in an
animated discussion,
I noticed that the
entity was trying to
influence my
behavior. It was as
if it was
experimenting with
me to see what it
could get me to do.
And I found that if
I did not exert a
conscious will to
the contrary, it was
succeeding in
getting me to do
things that I wasn't
initiating. At one
point, I found
myself trying to
open the ground
level door to the
upstairs offices in
the Polasky
Building, and
someone driving by
in a car was yelling
at me for trying to
break in. Jack
walked out in the
street and reassured
the person that I
was attempting no
such thing, and I
stood there stunned,
as if I had just
awakened to what was
going on.
Now I was afraid. As
early evening
approached, Jack
went to the Theta
Chi House where he
lived, and Melissa
went to her dorm
room. I went and sat
under a tree and
tried to collect
myself as best I
could and figure out
what to do. The
entity now seemed to
grow bigger and
stronger, and it
took on what I can
best describe as a
darkness. Like a
shadow. I could feel
it grow stronger and
I could feel myself
growing weaker and
more unable to
resist it. I went to
Melissa's dorm room
and she wouldn't let
me in but came
outside long enough
tell me that there
was nothing she
could do to help me.
"This is something
way stronger than
anything I know how
to deal with. That's
why I told you to
leave it alone. You
got yourself into
this and this is why
I told you that I
can't be responsible
for you. You must
leave now because
the daylight is
almost gone and I
don't want to be
anywhere near you in
the dark."
In the gathering
darkness the entity
loomed behind me and
above me like a
growing shadow. I
was weary and wanted
to lay down but
feared that if I
slept for even an
instant my life
would no longer be
my own. I had a key
to Gregor
MacGregor's dorm
room because I had
been crashing there
when I worked on
campus, and I headed
in this direction
because I didn't
know what else to
do. It was dark
enough now that I
could see the light
coming from the
student union, and,
on impulse, I walked
in this direction.
I walked in with the
giant hulking shadow
looming behind me,
and saw Jack and
Gregor at a table
near the back of the
room. I sat down and
gripped the arms of
the captain's chair
I was sitting in
with all my might,
as it now took all
of my will to keep
the looming entity
at bay. It seemed to
grow stronger by the
minute as I grew
weaker. Gregor made
some remark about
being freaked out
about whatever it
was that was hanging
around me, or some
such thing, and told
me I should crash
somewhere else, at
least until I got
this figured out.
Jack suddenly looked
up at me and, either
seeing or sensing
the horror of what
was happening said,
"I think I know what
this is. I saw
something like this
at a Jesus People
meeting in
California once. We
have to get out of
here. Do exactly
what I tell you."
We stood up together
and we walked
outside of the
union. I asked him
what to do and he
said, "Pray." And
for the first time
since I had stood in
the dark at
Eastminster and
screamed at God to
show himself to me,
I did. Praying
seemed to move the
entity back a
little. It was
almost as if this
took it by surprise
somehow or even
repulsed it.
Next thing I knew,
we were walking
across campus and
towards Bahlke
Field. Jack prayed
and I continued to
pray and the entity
seemed to follow
along. It was every
bit as strong, every
bit as malevolent,
but it also seemed
somewhat
neutralized. This is
the best I can
describe it.
Somehow, I began to
believe that there
might be a way out
of this after all.
We walked through
the gate and out
onto the grass of
the football field.
Jack stopped me and,
as I recall, he put
his hands on my
shoulders and
commanded, "In the
name Jesus
Christ..." That is
all I remember
hearing. I know he
commanded the evil
entity to leave, but
I don't recall the
exact words he chose
because at the name
of Jesus Christ, I
was thrown to the
ground and I felt
something take hold
of my throat and,
using my vocal
chords, it proceeded
to emit a series of
ear piercing screams
into the night air.
Suddenly, I felt as
if I was falling
into a dark and
endless abyss, and
as I fell, I could
hear the screams
fading as if growing
farther and farther
away. Then I found
my direction
reversed and I was
flying back upward
as the screams
coming from my
throat grew louder
and louder. As I
slammed back into my
body, the screaming
abruptly stopped,
and it felt as if
something popped
from my mouth.
I was on the
football field, Jack
was there, and the
entity was gone.
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