Hi all! This is a short story I wrote that I wanted to share. I hope you find it stimulating.
“Please stand for the reading of the Scriptures,'' boomed the pastor’s voice from the pulpit, “And when Jesus had stepped out of the boat, immediately there met him out of the tombs, a man with an unclean spirit. He lived among the tombs. And no one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain, for he had often been bound with shackles and chains, but he wrenched the chains apart, and he broke the shackles in pieces. No one had the strength to subdue him.”
Rachel shifted in her seat, familiar but never comfortable with the passage about demon possession. Pastors seemed to always take an extreme view, either preaching to watch out for the demonic forces hiding around every corner or avoiding the issue altogether. She looked over at her husband, who was intently listening. John had always been fascinated with the supernatural aspects of the Bible.
The pastor wore a forest green turtleneck and round tortoise shell glasses. Lines of time had been etched on his forehead. A great orator, he gesticulated and emphasized the dramatic scene, “Night and day among the tombs and on the mountains he was always crying out and cutting himself with stones. And when he saw Jesus from afar, he ran and fell down before him. And crying out with a loud voice, he said, ‘What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I adjure you by God, do not torment me.’ For he was saying to him, ‘Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!’ And Jesus asked him, ‘What is your name?’ He replied, “My name is Legion, for we are many.” And he begged him earnestly not to send them out of the country. Now a great herd of pigs was feeding there on the hillside, and they begged him, saying, ‘Send us to the pigs; let us enter them.’ So he gave them permission. And the unclean spirits came out and entered the pigs; and the herd, numbering about two thousand, rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned in the sea.”
“This is the Word of the Lord,” said the pastor.
“Thanks be to God,” echoed Rachel in harmony with the rest of the congregation.
The church shared space with a rarely used community theater. Rachel’s eyes wandered the old place while the pastor spoke. Once the sermon ended, a lady with a guitar made her way onto the stage. Rachel reached for her husband’s hand as the melodic acoustic music began to play.
“You live for the worship music,” laughed her husband.
Rachel leaned toward him while still facing forward, “Can you blame me for appreciating something uplifting after a sermon on demon possession?” Her husband gently squeezed her hand and refocused his attention forward.
Once the service was over, Rachel felt a tap on her shoulder, “Hi you!” said a high pitched excited voice.
“Allie! It’s been too long!” Rachel spun around, beaming, her brunette ponytail bouncing as she turned, “How are you?!”
“I’m good. Happy to finally be back home. I want to know about you though. How are things? How are you feeling?” As Allie spoke, her eyes drifted toward Rachel’s baby bump, now visible even under the loose sweater.
“Honestly, I’m really good. Not quite as quick as I was before, but the nausea is gone. For now, I’m basically just fat,” said Rachel.
Allie rolled her eyes, “Oh my gosh. You are the furthest thing from fat and still ridiculously cute. I can only hope to look like you while pregnant. Knowing my luck, I’ll be a whale and not even look prego.”
“You are ridiculous but the sweetest. Thank you, Allie,” Rachel, now radiating a palpable warmth, reached over the row of chairs separating them and clasped Allie’s hand.
Allie turned toward Rachel’s husband. Slouching in his chair, he held his phone in one hand, casually scrolling through his Twitter feed.
“John, how excited are you to be a father?!” asked Allie. John stood up and reluctantly joined the circle.
“Hey Allie. I’m excited,” he said.
Rachel jumped in, “We have been making all sorts of plans. John has already set up the crib and picked out toys and a few books that he wants to read to the little one.”
John reached his arm around Rachel’s waist, pulling her close to him, “Yeah, it’s going to be good.” A smile broke through his normally solemn expression.
Sunday and most of Monday drifted by, enjoyable days but uneventful and unassuming. The headlights of an approaching vehicle shined through the four-pane dining room window and into the kitchen. Rachel glanced up from the wok of vegetables and fried rice. John arrived home precisely when Rachel expected. Well, technically he was late, but this had become his norm. Rachel switched apps on her phone, turning off Taylor Swift who had been blaring throughout the home. She lifted some rice with the stirring spoon and gently blew on it before tasting. Aromatic ginger wafted up from the spoon. Perfect. Finally, not too much soy sauce and the rice was firm but not crunchy.
Out the window, yellow beams of streetlamps poked holes into the darkness. Rachel was lighting a candle on the dining room table as the front door opened. John walked in wearing the usual black polo. After putting down his lunch bag and laptop, he began to take off his shoes without speaking.
“Hey honey. Long day?” she asked as she walked over and leaned against the wall next to John. Her diminutive figure was like David next to a soft Goliath.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“Well I made us fried rice.”
“Ok.”
“No reason to look so glum! I actually did it right this time,” she stepped in front of him and cupped his upper arms in her hands, meeting his eyes, “You are going to love it. I know it!”
“Thanks Rachel,” he reached down to hug her, wrapping her in his bear-like arms, “I hope you can always pull me out of dark places.”
“What can I say, God blessed me with an unstoppable optimism,” she laughed. Rachel grabbed his bags, placing his laptop in the bedroom and bringing his lunch bag to the kitchen. John began to saunter toward the bedroom.
“John, is it ok if we eat before you change, so the food doesn’t get cold?”
“Sure,” he said, changing his direction.
“I just want you to have some while it’s hot. Especially because it’s finally really good!”
They sat down at the wooden kitchen table. Each corner of the table was a lighter shade than the middle section, worn down until the pressed particles were visible. Neither the plates nor the utensils being used were matching parts of a set, but they did match in that they all contained visible scratches. Pictures with a variety of frames decorated the coffee table and fridge, but the walls were mostly bare, much to Rachel’s chagrin. Knick-knacks evidenced Rachel’s heroic attempts at homeyness, yet the fourplex unit felt incomplete. She couldn’t wait until the baby arrived. She and John had used what little extra money they had to buy a couple nice things for the nursery. John had purchased Three Little Pigs.
Rachel buzzed around the kitchen after dinner, “Do you want some of this for lunch tomorrow?”
“Yeah, thanks,” John said from the table, without looking over.
“Well, I’m happy you liked it.”
John didn’t respond. Rachel had always known him as the quiet type. She didn’t mind it, as she often had a lot to say. And he had other strengths: reliability, loyalty, intelligence, and being a great listener. She had come to appreciate these traits after some previous relationships. He was often absorbed in whatever he was working on. If he scrolled through the news or played some games, how could she blame him after he worked another twelve hour day scrounging up what he could for the family?
“Alright you, I’m going to get ready for bed. See you soon!” she said as she headed down the hall toward their bedroom.
As another episode of House ended, Rachel realized she hadn’t seen John since dinner. Her phone read 11:00 pm. By this time most nights, they would have been asleep, John usually wandering in some time earlier which pulled Rachel from her shows. As she walked back out to the dining area, she heard no TV or music. He wasn’t on the couch where she had expected to find him asleep.
Rachel gazed toward the dining room table, her head tilted and her brows furled, “John?” There he sat, shoulders somewhat hunched, head bent forward, eyes open but dull. His forearms and hands rested on the table. All would have been normal if a phone was in his hands or a bowl of fried rice was in front of him, or if another person was sitting opposite him. But there was no phone in his hands, no bowl of steaming rice, no person to engage in conversation. There was only John.
“Are you ok?” She approached him and put her hand on his shoulder.
When he was touched, he stirred as if being lifted from a slumber, “Hey, Rach. Yeah. Just been feeling kind of off.”
She put the back of her hand on his forehead, “Do you think you’re sick? Any weird symptoms?”
“No, nothing like that,” John paused. His mouth briefly contorted into an incongruous smile, “Let’s head to bed.”
The next few days drifted back to normalcy, John out late doing freelance IT and Rachel working as a nursing assistant. They enjoyed their evenings, spending time together and engaging in their respective hobbies.
On Saturday, Rachel and John joined the usual group at Allie’s house. Their whole friend group fellowshipped together sharing food, talking, and playing board games. Once the festivities were over, Rachel and John headed out to their white Civic, which Rachel figured John had owned for over a decade. Peeling paint had coated one side, and there was a small starburst crack that had decorated the windshield for the last few years. John carried his three board games and Rachel rested the pesto noodle dish on her protruding belly as they walked back to the car. The trunk screeched in protest as Rachel slammed it shut, demanding WD-40 for its arthritic joints.
On the drive home, John broke the silence, “God’s been talking to me recently.”
“Yeah?” said Rachel.
“I’ve always had a hard time hearing his voice, but it’s been clear recently. Sometimes it’s confusing, but at least I can hear it.” John gestured as he spoke, taking a hand off the steering wheel.
“I guess I’m a little confused,” said Rachel, “I feel like when you and I usually hear something from God, it’s God speaking through someone who talks to us or through a thought that comes into our mind.”
“Yeah, yeah. But it’s always hard to tell if it’s God or not, ya know? This is different. This is God. I hear His voice,” enthusiasm radiated from John as he spoke. Rachel shifted in her seat, sitting farther from John but turning toward him.
“Are you sure it is God?”
“Of course I’m sure. He said it Himself! Who else would be talking to me like that?”
“I don’t know. This just seems like a big deal.”
“It is a big deal!”
“Well, what has he been saying?”
“He says we might not be safe,” John said, still facing forward, with a stern fixed stare, “There’s something in our house.”
“What does that even mean?” Rachel demanded, her voice elevated and flush with emotion.
“We have to move.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. We haven’t liked the place since we got there, but it isn’t like we have a lot of options right now,” Rachel’s voice quivered. John’s brows didn’t budge, nor did his lips curl or strain. He didn’t fidget with the contents of his pocket or tighten his grip on the wheel. He just drove.
After a leaden silence, Rachel continued, “We can’t just get up and move. This is ridiculous.” A cloud, dark and oppressive, hung about the car the rest of the ride.
When they arrived home, Rachel, hand already on the car door handle, exited the car and stomped into their apartment, leaving John to carry in the leftover food and games. Once she closed the front door of the apartment, she absorbed the memories speckling their home. Wedding pictures of her and John kissing, photo booth instant-prints with crazy costumes, and the recent pregnancy pictures, reminded her of their recent intimacy, forgotten in the blink of a drive home. Through the cracked door to her right, into the nursery, a set up mobile hung above the empty crib. Rachel’s eyes dampened. She wondered if John’s behavior would continue to be erratic once the newborn arrived. Would he be a good dad? Would the baby be safe? She ran into their bedroom and shut the door behind her. In a complete disregard for her nighttime ritual, she laid down in the bed, her face buried. Tears flowed into the pillow. She let it absorb her sorrow, her frustration, and her makeup.
Rachel’s alarm rang Sunday morning. Stretching her arms over her head, she let out a yawn, then cringed at the stiff papier-mache feeling of yesterday’s makeup. Her watercolor tears had dried, crusted onto her face. As her yawn subsided, she heard the moving of objects and rummaging through cardboard outside of her bedroom. She glanced over to see the blanket flipped down and no sign of John. Normally on a later schedule, John usually set his alarm for almost an hour after hers each morning.
Rachel slipped out of bed and threw on a loose sweater over her white tank top. Memories of yesterday began swirling. Inhaling deeply, she pushed the negative thoughts out of her mind. As she focused, she heard John’s voice from the other room. His speech was subdued, and she wasn’t able to understand what was being said. Rachel crept toward the voice and placed her ear on the closed bedroom door.
“No, no this is enough!” came John’s voice, temporarily elevated. No one talked for a minute, but the noise of rifling through boxes continued.
Then John began muttering, loud enough to be heard but with few discernable words.
“Pigs!” he shouted. Rachel shook, her heart momentarily taking flight, at the yell. Startled, Rachel bumped the door, but this seemed to have no effect on John. More incoherent sounds continued, still in John’s voice but gravelly and in a lower octave. Eventually, the muttering trailed off and the frantic shuffling ceased.
Sniffling followed by the sound of hushed sobbing emerged, “Dear God.”
“Oh, dear God, save me from this,” John pleaded. Rachel opened the door, her pulse pounding in her ears. Before she was able to take in the scene, the pungent odor of urine assaulted her nostrils. Her jaw slackened as she witnessed her husband. John kneeled in his clothes from the party. His head bowed low, a penitent position. Dangling from his clasped hands, a rosary hung. The beads quivered as John shook from his sobs. Around her husband’s knees, a puddle had formed.
“Oh John,” she kneeled next to him, placing her arm around his back.
“Rachel?” John turned toward her voice, the enveloping stupor melting away.
“It’s me, John. You’re safe,” Rachel pulled his massive yet bedraggled body into her arms, clutching him fiercely.
“To be honest with both of you, this is a little outside of my expertise” said Ben, the pastor. Rachel and John sat in chairs facing a plain wooden desk. Behind the desk sat the pastor, and behind him, a bookshelf stretched wall to wall. The assortment of books covered topics from eschatology and analysis of the Gospels to philosophy and modern fiction.
“He needs help, but I don’t know where to start,” said Rachel. She and John were now cleaned up and wearing what they would have worn to church, had they not had the incident this morning. John sat with his back hunched, the skin around his eyes weighed down by anchors. Rachel recounted the events from her point of view over the last week to the pastor.
“John,” the pastor started but paused, placing one foot on his opposite knee then planting both feet back on the ground, “Talk to me about how you’re experiencing all of this.”
“Well it hadn’t been a big deal until this morning,” said John, “Ben, I’ve known you a long time. I’ve never been very charismatic, speaking in tongues, dancing and yelling, you know the type.”
“But you’ve always had a heart for Jesus,” said Ben.
“Yeah, but I’ve often found it hard to connect with Him,” said John. Rached sighed and sat on her hands.
“Well, now I can finally hear Him, which had been great until last night,” John inhaled deeply.
“And that’s why you are here now, right?” asked Ben.
John stared through the pastor, through the bookshelf, “I heard a different voice last night. A voice very different from that of God.” The side of John’s mouth slithered upwards into a twisted grin.
“Ben. Do you remember your sermon from last Sunday? The demoniac?” John continued on, his eyes appeared fixed on something invisible to Rachel, “Well Jesus freed him. The demons were sent into a herd of pigs.”
Ben cocked his head, brows furled, “I’m not following.”
John lept up, towering over the others. He leaned forward, palms planted on the desk and shouted, flecks of spittle raining on the pastor, “Where’s my herd of pigs, Ben?”
“John, what the hell is going on?” asked Rachel. John’s otherworldly grimace faded as he turned toward Rachel. The pastor sat motionless, his lips ajar.
Rachel looked back at Ben, her eyes glossy and desperate, “I don’t know what’s going on, but he seems to be getting worse. And I’m just not sure he’s safe,” Rachel looked over at John who sat expressionless, hunched in his chair, not providing any words to defend himself.
“It’s one thing if it were just me at home with John,” Rachel paused, “But now we have the baby coming.”
The pastor started to fidget with a pen in his hand. His posture straightened, “There are a lot of churches out there, you know them, that jump to blame everything on demonic forces. But there are others who won’t even mention the word ‘demon’ in church for fear that the congregation will label them as crazy extremists. I’m not going to say what’s going on today is one way or another, but I think it would be premature to dismiss the possibility of spiritual forces at work.”
John’s eyes widened, and he was again staring past his wife and the pastor as he nodded, “Sounds about right. Well, Rachel, you don’t need that in your life.” His slow deliberate speech carried an air of finality.
“Now John, let’s not jump the gun,” Ben inserted, “Spiritual forces are one explanation, but medical issues can cause weird things. It’s probably worth getting checked out by someone. The county has a mental health crisis team. I’d recommend you start there.”
“Let’s head there after we leave here,” said Rachel. John’s eyes were hollow and unblinking. A weight fell on the small group, darkening spirits and clouding minds, as they waited for something from John, anything that might provide a glimmer of hope.
“How about I pray for you guys and get you on your way?” said Ben. Rachel dropped her head in consent. The pastor prayed. Rachel cried. John stared.
Once they left, Rachel called the local health department, and they directed her to go to the crisis team, and the crisis team talked to her for a while then directed her to take John to the emergency department where she listened to the triage staff ask John a litany of questions. Rachel knew this process from working as a nursing assistant. Nevertheless, the questions asked seemed tedious and unrelated to the current situation. Staff after staff, techs, registration, nurses, and doctors had their own lists of questions, ridiculously redundant. And not one of the staff would explain what any of John’s answers meant, as if the whole process was an intricate puzzle or test. Occasionally the nurse or doctor would frown or widen their eyes for a moment as if hinting at the answer’s disastrous implications. Rachel sat next to John in the small beige windowless cell waiting for something. Words slipped into the cell from the nearby hall and the nursing station: psychosis, delusions, paranoia, hallucinations, meth, druggie. John had never tried drugs.
They took his urine. They took his blood. In exchange, they gave him tiny cups with tiny white oval pills imprinted with letters and numbers.
“Take this. You’ll feel better,” they said.
“It’ll clear your thoughts,” they said. Rachel watched John become sedated and fall asleep. Rachel tried to wake John up for food, but he wouldn’t wake up. Then John urinated on himself, too drugged to make it to the toilet. A day later they decided that John was “good to go” and sent him home with the tiny white oval pills and instructions to take them everyday. They set him up an appointment with a provider who could give him more of these pills when he ran out.
Weeks went by. John rested at home, taking leave from work. Rachel went to bed early and woke up early, having had to pick up additional shifts. Finally, she began to notice differences over the last few days. The thick emotionless crust had cracked and fleeting beams of light, the old John, shone through. Rachel found a bouquet of flowers prepared for her when she got home from work yesterday. Tonight, they had talked about possible baby names, now that they knew they were having a little girl. Huxley, Ruth, Mia, Esther. Esther, they both knew was right.
Rachel laid in bed, her eyes closed as she began to drift off, dreaming about their little one. John said he had a couple more things to work on, so he’d be in bed late tonight.
Rachel woke up with the sun, little Esther pressing on her bladder. After using the restroom, she secured and pulled out the trash bag next to the toilet. At the bottom of the transparent bag, she saw an orange pill bottle still half full of pills. Tendrils of nausea gripped her stomach. John wasn’t in bed. She left the bedroom, holding the garbage bag in front of her with its incriminating evidence. Boxes full of their belongings lined the hall. No pictures adorned the walls, and when she peered into the nursery, she saw the crib had been broken down to its original sheets of wood.
Rachel stepped into the main living space. Kitchen drawers were open and empty. The entire contents of the fridge and freezer formed a dilapidated pyramid in the center of the kitchen floor. Out the front window, Rachel saw the dining room table on the front lawn. John sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor sketching what appeared to be a children’s treasure map on a scratch piece of paper.
John looked up, fixing his wild bloodshot eyes on Rachel. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, “He’s back and not happy about the medication. We need to find those pigs.”